Painted On My Soul, It Was Indelible
by Frostfoot-Dreamleaf
Summary: After Bran is chosen as King and Sansa secures the North as an independent Kingdom, she has to go home and figure out exactly how to rule. No one ever told her it would be so lonely... until a particular newly-minted knight slips into her heart, so quickly, so softly, she doesn't even realize it. Podrick/Sansa (Also Features a Gendry x Arya oneshot)
1. Indeed There Will be Time

**_And Indeed There Will Be Time (Gendry x Arya)_**

* * *

Five moments left out from the last episode of Game of Thrones where Arya and Gendry find the way back to each other.

Or, trying to make sense of 8x06 and write Gendrya as canon within the episode.

_A story in the 'Kings and Queens' universe, posted with 'Painted on My Soul' as they tie into each other! Enjoy! _

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_O N E_

In perhaps the only unbroken mirror in the entirety of King's Landing, Arya examined her reflection. She dips the rag into the half-cracked bowl, wrings out the warm water as she gently lifts it to her face.

Behind her, the once carefully crafted mosaics and frescoes on the walls had crumbled over, leaving large rocks and painful shards skittering across the floor. The once beautiful furniture was charred and splintered, the curtains and sheets were torn.

And then there was the ash.

If Arya forgot, for a moment, that she was in the South, she may look into the mirror and imagine herself back at Winterfell. She might see the dusting of white over everything and think that one of the maids forgot to close the door tightly enough, and the winter freeze had crept its way in. She may think that it is snow at her feet, and not the burning of a thousand innocents and the very city. She might be able to forget what Daenerys has done.

It matters little now that the Dragon Queen is dead, she supposes, but she wished that the ash could be like snow and melt under the deceptively warm welcome sun that shines through the cracks in the wall.

She dabs the cloth to her face, wiping away the darkened, caky blood and the sallow ash. The water in the bowl is more black than clear, but Arya continues her cleaning. She could probably find a warm bath, but something about the idea of bathing in these ghostly halls makes her spine shiver.

At her newest scar, tender and just starting to bruise around the edges, Arya presses with gentle fingers. She bites her tongue at the familiar sting of a wound, and she knows that this will not fade with time, but will be present on her face for years and years, a reminder of this fateful day.

Someone is slinking outside the room. Arya was not no one for most of her formative years to not hear the slightest touch of feet on the stones. She whips around, grasps Needle, and is ready. She doesn't think anyone is left that wants to war, the remaining people are celebrating in the streets the start of peace, but Arya never lets her guard down.

"Arya."

Gendry steps over the rubble into the room, and Arya lowers her sword to her side. Of all the people in the world, besides her family, Gendry is one Arya has nothing to fear from.

"That was swift," Arya says, as she knows that Davos had sent out ravens to all the ruling lords and ladies to come to King's Landing the discuss the trials of Tyrion and Jon as well as to consider the recently opened power vacuum.

"I left right after you, as soon as I realized you'd left Winterfell."

Arya turns, scowls, and sets her sword back onto the semi-functional table. She feels something in her heart pound, but shoves it back down.

"That was foolish, Gendry. Had you been here earlier, you could have been killed," She says quietly, the imagine of Gendry burning with the city making her hand shake as she reaches for the rag again.

Gendry is by her side almost as silent as she herself moves. Her fingers haven't fully brought the cloth to her face. She doesn't even flinch as Gendry takes the rag from her. Her body is like a statue as he turns her, ever so gently, and kneels before her. Arya had thought upon how tall Gendry was many times before, but it isn't until he's on his knees and his face still comes to hers that she really realizes how he just dwarfs over her.

He grabs the bowl, his jaw set into a deep frown, and continues on the left side of her face, where Arya has not yet gotten a chance to clean. She knows how rough his hands are, how strong they can be, but there is something indescribably gentle with the way he is cleaning her.

As a girl, Arya hated her maids. She'd scream and kick anyone who had attempted to brush her hair or put her into a dress. While Sansa had always relaxed into the baths as maids had rubbed off her porcelain skin, Arya had put up enough of a fuss to be allowed to bathe alone. Even now, if anyone had attempted to do this, Arya would have sooner stuck them with Needle than allowed it. However, she had no such desire to stop Gendry. While her brain reminded her of how much she despised being taken care of, her fingers and body resolutely remain motionless.

"Why did you come here?" Gendry asks.

"To kill Cersei." The words almost caught in her throat. She is horribly torn. On one hand, she feels as though if perhaps she had managed to kill Cersei early on, perhaps Dany would not have burned the city. Perhaps things would have been different. Perhaps she'd be preparing for a coronation or a wedding right now, and things would have not been so bad.

But she would have died. And, for as long as Arya had worshipped Death, she didn't want to go into his arms so soon.

"I hear the ceiling did that for you," Gendry offers, a hint of a smile on his face.

"I wish it had been me."

Gendry pauses, searching her eyes, "To kill her? For your revenge?"

Once, that's all it would have been. Now, Arya just feels responsible for all those children in the streets that are cold corpses.

"Because-," She breaks off, unable to express it.

"I'm glad you didn't. You would have been dead too, you realize." Gendry sounds angry. She's seen him angry before, but something in his eyes tells her he is more furious than ever before. It's not unfamiliar though, it's the same kind of anger she feels in her bones when she thinks of Gendry coming so foolheartedly after her.

He sets down the rag, his hands coming up to cup her cheeks. For one wild second, Arya is sure he's going to kiss her again. She is halfway between jerking back, halfway to just meeting him in the middle, her heart thumping like the hooves of a calvary.

She thinks of how, in the middle of that warn-torn and burning street, she'd seen that white horse. The steed with its snowy flank, and she'd thought of Gendry. She thought of Gendry coming in on that white horse to Winterfell, and how it had been years since she'd seen him, but how her chest had felt warm and also sort of hurt. She wasn't thinking about a lot in the heat of the battle, but a part of her knows that she felt like she would have been cheated out of something if she never got to see him again.

She wants to kiss him, but she does not.

He asked her to marry her, and she said no. She cannot be giving him false hope, not when she herself hardly has hope for anything now.

Gendry's hands fall to his side, as though remembering their last conversation. She can see the shadow of hurt still present on his face.

He stands and swallows hard.

"I'm glad you're alive," He rasps.

"I am too."

It is, Arya thinks, at least a start.

_T W O_

The council is set for a moon from the day that King's Landing fell. There is so much to get done that it seems insurmountable. The city is broken, the Red Keep is inhabitable, and those who survived are struggling. The streets need to be cleaned, the towers and rooms need to be made presentable and the people who somehow survived are either covered in bubbling, infected burns or are wondering why they survived when most had not.

Arya throws herself into whatever is needed to be done. It is partly to assuage the guilt of her own inability to kill Cersei, it is partly to keep her mind busy. She wants no time to think about things past the singular days she spends clearing out rocks or sitting with the smallpeople, for a future is too much for her.

She always imagined herself dying young. After completing her list, she wasn't sure she'd find a reason, and a part of her knew that killing the last person would likely result in her death as well. To have survived this far feels foreign and unsure. She is half convinced that she will perish any day, like the Red Woman who stumbled into the snow and became dust, having completed her mission.

Arya is still young. She is still more a child than an adult, she thinks. Had the world not gone sideways, had her father not died, Arya may have been married off only a handful of years ago. She might not have just been betrothed at this age, her wedding a near occasion in the upcoming moons. She has so much of her life laid out before her and suddenly...she's not sure where to go next.

In the moments her mind is not occupied, sometimes she finds her fancies to be far-flung and laughable. She considers each path with equal measure; a path where she vanishes from the world, a path where she joins Sansa and Bran in the North, a path where she votes for an abandoned castle and invites in all the orphans of the war, and finally a path that brings her to Gendry.

She will never say it out loud, but a part of her wants that final path to come true so badly it hurts.

She doesn't know how it would work. That path splits off into even small paths. There's one where she marries him, becomes a Lady despite all her protests. There's one where she remains as a mistress to whoever Gendry does marry in the end. There's one where Gendry refuses his title and the pair disappear into the forests and live out their days on the road, like they had during the early years of their friendship.

Arya isn't sure of much in this new world, and more than anything, she's most unsure about Gendry.

He stays for a fortnight in King's Landing to assist with the beginning renovations. However, he cannot ignore the newly-minted title he's been given for long, even if it was handed to him by the woman the small folk are calling The Mad Queen. There's a great discussion if it should be considered valid, but the truth of the matter is that there is no one at Storm's End and Gendry is the son of Robert Baratheon. It is his right.

The night before he leaves, Arya seeks him out.

"I thought I'd have to find you," Gendry says as soon as she slips from the shadows in front of him, "I say goodbye to people before I leave," He says, a hint of bitterness on his tongue. As much as it hurts, Arya knows it to be true. She regrets not telling him anything before leaving Winterfell, but she was unsure how to tell him that she images that she'd walk to her death.

"How long will you be gone?"

"Not long. I have to be back for the council," Gendry runs his hand over his nearly-shaved head, "I'm one of the most important Lords in Westeros now." He adds this with a bit of disbelief, a weak laugh.

"You deserve it," Arya says, hands clasped in front of her, "Out of anyone, you deserve the title of a Lord."

"I told you before and I'll say it again...I don't know what I'm doing, Arya."

"Few truly do," Arya says, thinking of all the Lords and Ladies who absolutely ran their houses and lands into nothing, of all the poor choices made by people who weren't fit to lead, "I think you'll figure it out fine."

Gendry chuckles, clasping on his coat, "It's it crazy I nearly don't want to go? To Storm's End? I almost...I almost said no."

Arya tilts her head, frowning, "I don't understand."

"I told you," Gendry's voice is quiet, "I wasn't sure if I wanted to be a Lord without you."

Arya snaps her eyes to meet his. She gives him distance over these past weeks. She's let him be. She thought he was pulling away from her, having realized his affections for her were a silly childhood crush, and she'd been steeling herself for the announcement that he'd found love with someone else.

"I wanted to tell you before, but you've been tactfully ignoring me," Gendry continues.

"Not ignoring you," Arya corrects, "I've been giving you time to think...in case…"

"In case what?" Gendry shakes his head, "In case I decided I wasn't in love with you?" It's the second time he's told her that, but it makes the hair stand up the same, still makes her throat tighten and her whole body warm.

She cannot think of an answer, not when he's staring at her like he is.

"I cannot think of a time, Arya, when I won't love you. I don't need to think at all."

It's only a couple steps between them, but in an instant, there's no space and his lips are hot on hers. They'd only kissed on two occasions; the first, the night before the battle, Arya had kissed him. The second, the night after, Gendry had kissed her. This time, Arya could not have said who kissed who first, all she knows is they both moved at the same time, as though pulled together by a string that guided them to each other, and Arya never wanted it to end.

She thinks if she'd sought him out sooner, maybe they would have had more time for this. Maybe Gendry would have led her to his bed, laid her down, and made her feel good again. As it is, she can feel his desire hardening against her thigh and all she wants to do is shove down his breeches and have him again, but there is not the time for that. Gendry and a small assembly of bannermen are set to leave for Storm's End in less than an hour.

It's for the better, perhaps. The first time they'd had sex, Arya had done it just out of curiosity and with the hope that this would satisfy her childhood crush on him. If anything, it had only made it grow more, but she hadn't been sure of her survival. It hadn't been done right in the metaphorical sense. Life was too short to 'take it slow', but maybe waiting until they just had more time to be together, instead of a quick rut in the darkness of Winterfell, was fair.

When Gendry pulled away, he breathes out heavily. He cannot keep himself from her, and dips back down for another kiss, and then again.

"I will be back for the council," He tells her.

It is a promise and a question all at the same time.

Arya stands on her toes to kiss him one more time, "You'd better."

_ E_

The Lords and Ladies of the Kingdoms that come to the council seem to pop up from nowhere. There are people that Arya has not given a thought to in years, such as Howland Reed and Yohn Royce. Her cousin Robin appears, looking much older than she remembered him, but she supposes she's grown up a great deal too. Girls giggle over him like Sansa once giggled over Joffrey, and she imagines he'll have a pick of a wife now. Lots of people seem to be settling down. Arya and Sansa had shared a conversation where they theorized how many new children would be born nine moons from now; their conclusion, a lot.

There are also new faces of people filling holes where they can, people that Arya did not know names of until they arrived, such as Lord Hightower or the new Dornish prince. It feels so bizarre to be around so many people who have such importance in the world right now. They all sort of eye each other warily, since no one is sure what's going to happen next.

It seems, as Lords and Ladies continue to fill the Red Keep the only one who has not arrived yet is Gendry.

She waits for a Raven with an explanation to his tardiness some days, and others she finds herself sitting at the windows waiting for him to arrive. She is anxious for his return. Just like their new world, she is unsure where it is going to lead them, but there is a certainty with their relationship that others do not have. Gendry loves her, and for all it is worth, Arya is fairly sure she loves him too.

Arya tries to visit Jon during her time without Gendry, but Grey Worm aggressively guards his cell, which is more or less one of the few surviving rooms with a lock. While Grey Worm applauds her for killing the Night King, he is not moved enough to allow her visitation with her dearest sibling.

She finds herself spending time with Sansa, since Bran isn't much for conversation anymore. It's quite bittersweet that it took all that time and war for the pair of sisters to feel like family to one another. She isn't sure she believes in an afterlife, but if there is one, she knows their parents are looking down upon them and smiling.

The trio of Starks go down to the council together. Sansa had arrived not long after Gendry had, but Arya knows she's itching to get back to the North. Her feelings toward King's Landing have turned bitter and spoiled, and she wants to linger here no more than Arya does.

Arya fears that Gendry will not make it all, and that maybe that was the last time they were fated to see each other, and how she wishes she said more. They sit in their chairs, and watch as the others fill up.

Then, somehow, Gendry is there. She curses herself for not paying better attention, but he and Davos walked in together. He hands off a piece of luggage to a nearby squire, which tells Arya he just arrived, and walks upon the dais.

He's wearing Baratheon-style clothes. Arya recalls the look that King Robert used to have was very similar to the overcoat he has on. It makes him look just as much a Lord as any of these others, if not more, because he wears it so well.

Across the platform, he catches her eye. Arya holds herself in her chair to keep from going up and kissing him and then hitting him for taking so long. Or hitting him and then kissing him. Some order like that.

There isn't time for words, because Grey Worm is bringing out Tyrion.

After, Gendry is pulled away by Tyrion and Ser Davos to settle himself. Bran, the newly-minted King, just smiles at Arya with that sort of creepy smile he's been wearing of late. Arya wants to know if he sees something between her and Gendry, but decides she'd rather find out herself instead of merely being told.

The Lords that were invited will be staying at least half a fortnight, to transition this new way, as well as to try to create some semblance of a united Kingdom again. Gendry is due to stay for a whole fortnight, Arya hears from a passing pair of ladies, and fourteen whole days with him seems like a gift Arya isn't sure how to use.

By the time Arya returns to her room, Gendry is already there.

Arya, now in the safety of her closed door, throws down her sword and cape and launches herself at him, pulling him down to her height to kiss him.

"You're nearly late," She scolds.

"I'm sorry, m'lady," He teases, and she shoves him playfully, but with enough strength to send him back a few steps, "Apparently, installing yourself as the new Lord of Storm's End is more difficult than I thought. Did you miss me?"

"You absolute idiot," Arya just mumbles, and she feels like that's answer enough. Gendry laughs against her kiss, wrapping his arms around her. Arya cannot remember the last time she felt so content.

Gendry growls low in his throat, his kisses turning more wanting, harder against her lips. Arya fists her hands at the nape of his neck, letting Gendry pick her up. It's like she's nothing more than a twig with how easily he's able to lift her, but then again, he didn't spend years in the forge for nothing.

There's a writing desk near the entrance to her room, and it's the closest surface, but Arya is still surprised when he sets her on top of that instead of the bed.

"Too far," He says quickly at her raised brow, which tells her how badly he needs her, since the bed- albeit at the end of the room- is maybe twenty or so steps away, "When you threatened to cut Yara's throat in the meeting, seven hells, Arya…" Gendry says, slotting himself between her legs and yanking her against him.

He'd been kind enough to let her take the lead their first time, and the look of awe on his face was something Arya still saw on the backs of her eyelids late at night. She was entirely agreeable, however, to allow Gendry to take control right now. There was something a little bit freeing about letting go and encouraging Gendry to have his way with her.

All her thoughts that their second time would be slow were vanishing slowly, but Arya just told herself their third time could be sweet.

Arya yanks off her tunic with the same urgency she had the first time, and once her top was bare, Gendry's palms find her breasts. There is a little more exploration with his hands, sliding up and down her torso and back to her shoulders, just as Arya's fingers work to undo the nice leather jacket. It was probably very expensive, but neither gave a damn about it as it slides onto the floor and is shoved back by Gendry's heel.

Gendry steps away from Arya with just enough space between them for both of them to slide out of their pants. Arya's smallclothes and pants hit the floor, whereas Gendry's fell halfway down his legs before he was moving back. Arya's fingers wrap around him as his fingers travel between her legs, but didn't stay long once he felt how slick she was.

Arya was already lining him up, and when he pushes in her, Arya let out a breathless moan.

This was always going to be a quick, almost rough second time. One of Arya's arms loops around his neck, her other hand gripping the edge of the desk as he moves inside of her. One of his arms is holding Arya as close to him as he can, their slightly sweating skin sealing against the other, his forehead dropped into the shallow of her neck. She can feel him panting on her collarbone, exhaling as he fucks her. His other hand marks lines on the top of her leg as he lifts it up, angling himself just the right way to make Arya see stars behind her closed eyes.

He's truly a bull, Arya thinks, despite his heritage making him a deer. A deer wouldn't be so deliciously rough, a deer wouldn't have the utter strength he does, a deer's mouth wouldn't feel so warm as he nips on her neck. He's the only Baratheon left; if he changed his sigil to a bull, who would tell him he couldn't?

The hand that had been on her leg moved back between her legs, playing with the tiny bundle of nerves that Arya had explored by herself when it was night and she thought of Gendry. She is unprepared for the way that her pleasure peaks, washing over her and leaving her boneless. Gendry finishes a moment later, and they stay joined for much longer than Arya thinks is normal, but she isn't about to move.

As the haze of need lessons, Arya can hear rhythmic thumping coming from the room next to hers. She's fairly sure that it's Robin Arryn in there, and while she feels weird knowing her cousin is having sex too, Gendry's expression makes her laugh.

"I'm glad everyone else has similar ideas," Gendry says after a moment, "I'm guessing we weren't quiet."

Arya didn't realize it during, but she winces as she recalls moaning and saying Gendry's name. It had felt like a dream at the time, but yes, she's sure someone had heard her.

Before Arya can hide herself away at this, Gendry has picked her up and now puts her on the bed. He crawls next to her, fingers tracing over the scars on her stomach and torso.

"We have all night," He says, "And I'm not leaving." It's not a request, it's an announcement. Arya wasn't about to kick him from her bed anyway, "Tell me what happened after we parted."

"It's a long story," Arya warns.

Gendry's hands push her hair behind her ear, "For once, we have all the time in the world."

_F O U R_

Arya's decision to sail west is born out of a couple of different things. The biggest deciding factor is that Arya does not know exactly who she is other than a Stark. She wishes that this were enough, but she is a Stark that has no desire to ever return to Winterfell. Because of that, she feels a little shattered. She feels like she has to rebuild herself somehow, and she's not entirely sure that's possible anywhere within the Seven Kingdoms.

She could have paid for any boat she wished. Sansa and Bran both were offering her as much money as she required, and with their blessing, Arya decides to craft a vessel worthy of a wolf, with her family's sigil at the front and in the sails. She wants it to be unmistakable that Arya is from the North, even if she goes West.

Gendry has his responsibilities and Arya has her own. She knows she would not be happy right now as his lady. She had spent so much of her time just surviving that she's never given time to any of her own happiness. There is an itch in her bones that needs to be scratched, and she is sure that until this happens, she would not find solace in a castle somewhere.

No one is going to tell Arya no. She is free to wear pants and sword-fight, and any of the Lords or Ladies that are left would jump at the chance to offer Arya 'Dawnbrighter' Stark a room in their halls as she waits for her ship to be built.

There is only one place that seems logical.

Storm's End builds itself up under the careful eye of Gendry Baratheon.

Arya knew she'd be lying if she said Gendry wasn't disappointed when she shared her plans with him, but in time, he understands. Plus, she's not saying goodbye forever, just for a little while. Arya has every intention of coming back to Westeros.

"It wouldn't be worth it if I found what's out there and then never came back to share it," She said very logically to Gendry, "I've mapped out a three-year journey."

After three years, Arya tells herself she'll revisit the idea of being with Gendry, but she knows in her heart she will only make it so long before she wants to come back to him. She's hoping she'll even last three years. She has the idea, however, that she'll be surer of who is is when she returns.

"You don't have to wait for me," Arya tells Gendry, "That's not fair to you."

"I'll tell you over and over until you get it," Gendry responds, "I don't want anyone else. I'd wait a hundred years for you."

If Arya were more of a romantic, that would nearly make her cry. As it is, it certainly makes her smile.

It's not a secret that Arya shares Gendry's bed in Storm's End. No one says anything directly, but they also do not hide it. No one bothers Gendry for a wife or a son. Everyone is just glad they're alive and peace is here.

The night before Arya leaves, she and Gendry kiss quietly and slowly, and he move in and out of her at a languid pace, both of them more focused on each other than the act of making love. It's a comfort. Arya can feel Gendry's heartbeat through his skin, against her chest, and she vows to remember this moment.

"I love you, you know," Arya says. She does not say it enough.

"Yes," Gendry replies, "and you know I love you too."

Arya will return. She does not look back to Storm's End as she boards the boat, but under her clothes and under her coat with the Stark sigil is a tiny deer necklace she had made. Tied to the chain is a piece of Gendry's shirt, as though she were a knight asking for his favor in a tournament.

It rests against her heart and is her compass home.

_F I V E_

For most of her journey, Arya is cut off from Westeros. It is only about once every eight months, when she returns back to an island near Braavos for supplies as she charts the world beyond, that Arya gets ravens. There is a Maester there that keeps them saved up for her, tied with a string. Arya always eagerly tears into them once she's in her captain's quarters, laying out the parchments and wax sigils across her floor like a mosaic.

Sansa continues to write her often, as does Ser Brienne. Both of the woman keep her up to date with their own struggles and triumphs to carve out this new world. Sansa always talks to Arya like she was standing in front of her, a friendly and casual correspondence. Ser Brienne is more formal, but she always signs the bottom with 'love Brienne' at the bottom, which makes Arya feel happy. They keep Arya updated on the gossip and marriages of the realm, and Arya is always terrified that one day it will be an announcement for Gendry's wedding, even if she gave him permission.

It never comes.

Sansa also tells Arya about all the children that were born, a lot within the time they had so expected, and it makes Arya happy to imagine a new world being created over in Westeros, with a new generation of children who will never know the horrors they all experienced. Sansa herself had not married, but does have a son, who she gives the Stark last name to. She will not tell Arya in writing who the father is, teasing that her dear sister will have to return home to discover this secret, and that Arya's nephew little Eddard is being raised on stories of the most ferocious women in all of Westeros, his Aunt Arya.

She only gets one letter from Jon, informing her that he's going with the Wildlings beyond the wall and may never return. Somehow, it seems right that Arya and Jon both have headed off to the theoretical ends of the world.

Arya gets the most letters from Gendry, however. It seems as though he almost writes her daily. He tells her about all his struggles in learning how to become a Lord, his quick wits and hilarious retellings giving her strength and making her laugh so hard she cries. He always ends the letter saying that he loves her more than anything else, and that one day, he'll kiss her again.

Arya writes back when she is at the island, and she always returns the sentiments to Gendry.

Arya discovers worlds beyond. She meets people who have never heard of dragons or dire wolves or kings and queens. She finds other places to settle. She makes connections and relations and friendships. She is a girl who is not known by her triumphs across the sea, only as the traveler from afar.

She finds what she truly enjoys; helping others, encouraging life. She is never as happy as when she's talking to an innkeeper and his family and aiding them in raising a roof or when she's gathered children around and is telling them stories from the Seven Kingdoms, about knights and dragons and most of all about love.

After three years, she has more maps made than room to place them. She had spent the money given to her, but has prepared the lands beyond for others to come. She is sure there are many like her who are ready for something new and exciting. She promises to come back and visit one day, but she knows she is ready to go home now.

She returns to Gendry two years and ten moons later. She has not been no one for a long time, but she uses her once all-important skills to sneak into Gendry's bedroom.

"Ask me again."

Gendry nearly jumps out of his skin. He stares at Arya for a moment, jaw hanging low, as though he thinks her an apparition.

Then, he is crushing her in a hug.

"Ask me again," Arya begs, burrowing her face into his chest. She is wearing very little; most of her clothes she'd taken off, since the air in Storm's End is much warmer than Winterfell. Her necklace still hangs down, and although his shirt piece has long ago lost the scent, she still has it tied. It's worn and threadbare from all the nights Arya would sit rubbing her fingers across it, thinking of him.

"I don't…" Gendry pulls back, frowning.

Arya rolls her eyes, "I'm going to marry you, Gendry." She says firmly, "You have a problem with that?"

"Gods, no, Arya-," Gendry chokes on his words, kissing her softly at first, just a storm of light kisses all over her face, as he worships every inch of her, "You're here to stay?"

"I'm home for good," Arya confirms.

Gendry pulls back.

"I thought...you didn't want to be a lady?"

"I won't be," Arya has had a long time to think about this, "I will be Arya Stark Baratheon, but seriously, who is going to command me to wear dresses or answer to 'Lady'? It's a new world, and we decided such. I'm can still be your wife and a mother and not be a lady at all. I think I realized while I was gone that I don't have to chose one or the other; I can be both if I so want."

"Okay," Gendry said, shaking, "You know I'd never be able to say no to you," He said, refusing to let go.

"Ask me again," Arya commands a third time, a warm smile on her face.

Gendry bends down on one knee, as he had so long ago, holding Arya's hands in his own.

"Arya Stark, will you marry me?"

Arya knelt down in front of him, kissing his hand softly, as she'd seen others do. Then, she kissed him once, "Of course."

* * *

**The rest of the chapters in this story are going to be Sansa x Podrick, with the actual titled fic! I will post Ch 1 of that later this week, and then I update weekly after that! **


	2. O N E

**Starting now we get onto the actual Podrick/Sansa story! I anticipate this to be between 25-30 chapters, but we'll see! Most will be a little bit longer than this :) **

**Thank you to those who reviewed the first tie-in: AlliKat21 and Elizzzybeth! **

* * *

_I _

It was moons before Sansa returned to Winterfell. The day that Daenerys had been slain, Bran had come to her room and told her in that monotone voice that the queen was dead. Sansa had already readied the horses and summoned her guards to ride with her before she could think about what she was doing.

She'd asked Bran if he would like to come, for they could always ready a carriage for him.

Bran had just smiled at her, his face emotionless even with something like the curl of his lip, now looking foreign on his features. He'd just said, "It's not quite my time," and Sansa had left it at that.

She, truly, had no idea how to talk to him anymore.

By the time that Davos sent the letter out asking for the Lords and Ladies to come to King's Landing, Sansa was already halfway there.

She recalled how once she'd cursed her family name and wished to be anything other than the traitor's daughter. She recalled how she'd recanted it at the Vale for her safety, given it up to stay alive. She thought about how it had taken so long, but she'd just reclaimed it.

More importantly, Sansa had reclaimed her family. Arya, Jon, and even Bran. Sansa Stark would do anything for them. So, when she'd gotten the news that Arya was in the capitol and Jon was arrested, Sansa did not question leaving at all.

After the whole event of it was said and done, and Bran- her baby brother, Bran, who she remembered the day he was born and how he'd come out squalling so loudly it had awoken Sansa from her sleep- was chosen as the new King, Sansa made preparations to return home.

She had secured the North as an independent Kingdom. For the first time in so very long, Sansa felt as though she could finally rest.

Peace had come, and her people would survive.

_II_

Sansa returned home alone. She'd left alone, but returning home alone almost felt like a knife in her heart. All she'd done and Sansa was the last Stark at Winterfell. There was something about that idea that cut her deeper than anything else that had happened.

When she had been young, the idea that all of her siblings would go off and only one of them would be at Winterfell was not strange to her. Jon would be with the Night's Watch, Robb would rule after their father married to a Frey, Theon would have returned home, Sansa would be Queen in King's Landing, Bran might be knighted somewhere, spirits willing Arya would have been married off to a Lord, and Rickon might have just celebrated his wedding. It used to excite her.

Sansa would have given anything for all of her family to come home with her right now, though. After all they'd been through, it felt cheapened that they couldn't be by her side, despite the responsibilities on their shoulders.

Her family is now scattered to the wind; Bran in the South as the King of all, Jon up on the Wall, and Arya sailing off into the West. Well, right now her sister is likely at Storm's End, but the sentiment still stands. It's nearly like it was months ago, with two key differences. One; Sansa is fairly certain where her siblings are at any given time and two; she has less fear that they might turn up dead.

Life in itself is dangerous, she knows. There are no guarantees that any of them will live even when there is not a war raging or those that wish to serve their heads on a silver platter.

The part of Sansa that is still a child wishes they were all coming back with her, where she could see them every day and know they were safe.

She had to admit, she'd been disappointed when Ser Brienne had pulled her aside and told Sansa that Bran had asked her to stay on as a sword and shield for him. Bran had more enemies than Sansa had, and Sansa also would have the entire North with swords drawn for her. Brienne would be more useful in the Capitol, that was true. Sansa had grown up. She did not need Brienne protecting her anymore.

But it still made her ache.

She'd been telling herself that at least Ser Brienne and Podrick would be making the journey home with her, but that wasn't their home, was it? No, she could not fault them for this, and Sansa wished them both all the best in the world.

They'd visit, Podrick had been quick to point out, for it was unlikely that she'd never see Bran again.

So, Sansa rode home alone.

Well, alone wasn't apt. She rode home with all of her bannermen that had followed Jon to fight in the last battle of the Great War, guiding them up the path back to where snow covered the ground. When the first hint of winter, that sharpness of something clean and cold, wafted to them over the breeze, Sansa nearly felt the relief that rippled through the crowds. So no, she was not alone in the very literal sense, but she was _lonely_ .

As she rode up to the gates, she was met with bows and murmurs of 'Queen'. Word had preceded her, it seemed.

"Let the men in, and find food for them," Sansa said as she slid off her steed, stretching out the soreness in her muscles.

"All, m'Lad-Queen?" A Cerywn asked her; a cousin, she thought.

"Yes. They've traveled a long way and they fought for us. We'll take stock tomorrow, but for tonight, give any hungry man a warm meal."

"Of course, your Queen, as you command," He said, bowing twice, and Sansa left him to do so.

Winterfell was still in shambles. They'd begun reparations, but the damage from the Long Night was present everywhere.

It was with a jolt Sansa realized she'd be making all these decisions alone. For as much as Jon or Dany had frustrated her, it had been a second voice. It was only her now.

Only her.

Sansa let the uncertainty wash over her for a moment before she squared her shoulders and walked into the courtyard.

_III_

While she'd been ruling Winterfell before Jon had returned (but it had felt like hers in small moments), there was a marked difference between then and now. Then, she'd been holding her breath, always waiting for someone to come and take the title back. She'd been a placeholder, a bookmark, a finger held between two pages as she waited for the proper King to return. Now, it was official, decreed by the King of the Six Kingdoms, and it was almost magic. The realization that all this was actually hers, after her mild panic, seemed to spark through the halls, the tension and excitement buzzing on her skin.

As she unpacked her items, she started to move toward her old bedroom, as she'd always slept. It was the one she'd inhabited since childhood, and there had been no place she'd wanted to sleep in more than that when she had returned with Littlefinger. There had been an unspeakable comfort in curling up with the blankets her mother had sewed for her as a child, laying and staring out the window she'd gazed upon hundreds if not thousands of times.

"My Queen, should we take this to the Royal Suites?"

Sansa blinked, looking down the hall to the right, to the room her parents used to sleep in. Everyone had holed back up in their old rooms upon returning too, moving by muscle memory and a desire to go back to something they knew. Even with all of the guests they'd entertained, there was an unspoken agreement between Jon and Sansa that no one would sleep in their parent's room, not even Daenerys. It had sat untouched for years at this point, Sansa realized.

But it was where she should go. It wasn't the biggest but had been the most central. Most importantly, it had been Ned and Catelyn's. It would send a powerful message. Sansa was not here as a clumsy child to stumble through her new rules, she was slipping seamlessly into her mother and father's shoes to take the North into this new era.

"Yes, of course," She spoke, as though that had been her intention all along, "It might be a little dirty. I will be gathering things from my old room, and I would like my new room cleaned properly and ready by nightfall."

It still did feel strange to be commanding people, and even stranger to watch them nod and agree without question.

Sansa was Queen now. Even if this is everything she'd wanted, it would take a second to get used to.

_IV_

After five nights sleeping in the bed in her new room, the room that was once her parent's, Sansa had decided upon something. It was entirely too large for one person.

The first night, she'd stretched out in the space, marveled at the extra inches to sprawl, languished like a cat enjoying the sun and had had one of the most fitful nights of sleep of her life. It was after this, though, that the largeness of the bed began to truly weigh upon her, and Sansa was not quite as tickled with the extra room. It just made it so obvious that she was alone and there was no one curling up with her when the winds whipped against the windows.

Sansa knew many things. She, above all, knew how to be a queen. This she had spent all of her years learning, watching others, and waiting. She knew how to run a household. She knew war tactics. She knew good literature. The one thing Sansa did not know much about at all was love.

She had once been under the delusion that Joffrey was perfect, but it wasn't long before that was whisked away. Ramsay may have been worse. She wasn't lying when she told Tyrion that he had been the best of her husbands, but she had never loved him. She had admired him, had adored his intelligence, and could never repay him for the simple act of keeping her safe as his bride, but she had not loved him. Littlefinger had claimed to love her, but it had been all-consuming and manipulative. Sansa had not cried over his death. She didn't know a lot, but she knew that wasn't what love was either.

Sansa was fairly certain she'd never been in love, not in the right way.

There had been a moment when Theon had returned, and her heart had felt warm and her stomach had flipped inside of her, that she wondered if that's what it was. When she'd hugged him, and his arms had wrapped around her, she had never wanted to let go. She'd been too afraid to say something, told herself that the next morning after the battle she'd tell him, but he'd died.

And the only flicker of romantic affection Sansa had ever truly felt had died with him.

Perhaps, she considered, it was for the best. Jon had loved Daenerys, though Sansa was still unsure as to why, and he'd killed her in the end. He was no better now than before he met her. Worse, in fact, as he was exiled to the Wall for the rest of his days.

Bran had never loved anyone, or if he had once, he didn't anymore. There had been a little hope, when Meera brought him back, that perhaps the pair would find solace in each other, for Sansa hoped one of her siblings to be happy. Meera had been dismissed at once, and that had been shot down.

Out of all the impossible things, one of the most impossible was the fact that- of the four- Arya was the one most in love with the happiest of endings.

It wasn't hard to realize what had happened between her dear, wild sister and the newly-minted Baratheon. If not for the way that Arya blushed when he came into a room, it was the way their eyes undressed each other during meetings, the secret smiles shot across the council. It was the fact that Gendry had not ridden with Jon, but had left at once for King's Landing when they woke up to Arya gone. It was the fact that Arya was in the Stormlands when she could have been anywhere in the world. It was the confirmation of it all when Arya admitted to Sansa that she was pretty sure she was in love with him, and after her journey, she'd be returning to him.

Once, as a young girl, Sansa would have been jealous that her sister got everything she wanted from a man. Now, Sansa wished them the very best. One of her siblings deserved complete happiness.

Sansa, one of the nights, arranged her pillows to lay by her side as she pretended that it was a husband, and wrapped her arms fully around it. Is this what that would feel like?

_V_

The official coronation for Sansa was set a fortnight after arriving back at Winterfell. It would give the castle enough time to breathe. Her bannermen could return home to their wives and children and make it back. They could start to count their provisions and weren't rushed to provide a detailed analysis of what needed to be done to re-fortify. Bran's official coronation wouldn't even be for a month or two, and while Sansa had expressed her best wishes for Bran with a raven, she was not going to go back to King's Landing as much as she could help it.

Sansa gave most of the coronation details to others, having so much on her own plate to attend to every little thing, but there was one specific item she did not let anyone else near.

While there were certainly talented maids that would have jumped at a chance to sew her dress, Sansa insisted on doing so herself.

Embroidery had been one of her greatest skills and hobbies so very long ago. Ever since she'd left for the Capitol the first time, Sansa hadn't a chance to truly return to that again. There had always been something else to be done, some fear that kept her too preoccupied to take out fabrics and begin to thread it.

Looking back on it, it was one of the few things she felt she had left that reminded her of her mother. Many of Sansa's favorite childhood dresses had been made by Catelyn, right here in the halls that Sansa now walked. They hadn't needed to send out for a dressmaker, her mother was very capable of creating beautiful dresses herself. While Septa Mordane had shown Sansa the basics of sewing and attempted to teach Arya, it had been her mother who had showed Sansa how to make delicate embroidered flowers or stunning stitching. The art and craft had been all her making.

It was an ambitious undertaking, but Sansa found she had a lot of time on her hands. She found it hard to fall asleep of late, and not only because the bed felt like it was swallowing her with its size. More than that, Sansa was starting to feel overwhelmed with how far Winterfell had to go to mend itself. It seemed like it would never end, and then after that, she had to simply live. It made ruling as a co-pair seem much more desirable.

She'd find help, she knew, advisors to take some of the weight off, but Sansa still could not sleep.

She loved her people, and it all rested on her now. Any mistakes she made could really endanger her loyal followers. Sansa would not allow herself to fail.

In the beginning, Sansa hadn't been sure what sort of dress she could make. She'd burnt the candle down to stubs on her desk, drafting ideas and patterns. She'd drawn up something she thought perfect and then changed it a million times.

What do I want this dress to express?

Sansa often found herself wishing for her family to be here, with her. She wanted the gentle guiding hand of her mother and the bravery of her father. She wanted the charm of Robb, the dedication of Jon, the wildness of Arya, the wiseness of Bran, and the youthfulness of Rickon. When she closed her eyes, fingers on the rough stone walls, she could almost imagine the laughter that once lit up her home, long before Joffrey had ever come to ruin their lives. It seemed impossible it would ever return to that, the horrors these walls had seen, but Sansa had to keep the faith it might.

Her family was not there, but that didn't mean their spirits weren't.

Sansa would have not made it this far, she considered, without her family. They were like ghosts in every corner of the hall, reminding Sansa of where she'd come from and where she was going.

After that, the dress pattern came easily.

She sewed little red Weirwood leaves to represent Bran, she fashioned a one-sided cloak for Arya, she choose a dark smoky black color of furs for Jon around her neck, she included delicate fish scales up and down the sleeves for her Tully mother, she sewed tufts of fur that were unruly like Rickon and his hair had been and finished it in grey for her Father. The crown was a wolf for Robb, the King before her, but also for Cersei. She may have despised the woman, and she did, but she learned so much from her. Without Cersei, it was unlikely she'd be here today, as the Queen of the North. Her corset wrapped around her was a shield as a protection from all the awful things she'd faced, and also a nod to Theon, like that breastplate he'd worn with pride the day he died. There was just a hint of feathers, for she had once been a Little Bird, Little Dove. She may be a hawk or falcon now, but she started somewhere. Everyone- even a master of kindness and loyalty and ruling like her father- had begun exactly where Sansa had. She embroidered the entire length of fabric in a subtle pattern similar to Margaery's wedding gown. She'd watched it sewed, and loved it. Margaery had been her singular friend at King's Landing, and to this day, Sansa wished she were still alive.

Her dress was the culmination of everything that had brought Sansa to this point.

When she put it on, it felt like her family was giving her one last embrace. As she ran her fingers over the totems for her siblings, she hoped she'd never lose everything they'd meant to teach her and that the equally hadn't realized, but had become so important to her.

Sansa was a Stark of the North, and the North remembers.


	3. T W O

_VI_

"How would you like your hair, m'lady?"

Sansa glanced at the reflection of the servant-girl as she combed through her silky fire-red hair. She paused dabbing on the rouge to her cheeks to consider the inquiry. While Sansa deliberated, the servant continued to run the brush down to the ends of the strands, waiting for instruction.

"Just brush it out until it shines, and nothing else," Sansa said decisively.

As a young girl, Sansa had been so envious of the fabulous curls that Rob had. She'd run her fingers through his hair and wished that her straight hair could have even a hint of the waviness that he had. There were moments when she was drying it, that it almost looked like it would curl. It always dried out without any hints of volume, however.

And oh, how Sansa had tried every trick to acquire those stunning curls that she wanted so bad. She'd had her ladies spin her hair around ribbon before bed for a hint of a bounce when she woke up. She'd stare at the perfect ringlets that her friends sported, and wish that she could have been born with the hair of a Stark since it was her Tully genes that gave her listless, boring hair in texture.

"Are you sure? I can do a great many styles," The servant girl asked uneasily, her smile faltering.

Sansa was sure she could. They'd have to find more permanent maids for Sansa after she was officially crowned, of course. Sansa found herself, not for the first time, missing Shae terribly.

This was a kitchen maid who had been chosen in the interim, for her ability to do everything from delicate plaits to complicated Southron styles. It was clear the girl thought Sansa believed she was unable to do so, and Sansa had asked for something no one could mess up for her sake.

This was simply untrue.

For as long as Sansa could recall, she'd worn the hairstyles of others. From the day that her hair was long enough to do anything with until she left for King's Landing, she wore her hair like her mother. In King's Landing, she emulated every South women, hoping that perhaps if she dressed her hair like them she'd understand how to be a better lady. When she'd rode to the Vale, she'd worn her hair like her aunt. Even when she'd returned to Winterfell, married to Ramsay, she'd tried to keep her hair tied up. Hair in a bun offered fewer places for Ramsay to grab.

None of it had ever been Sansa, or it had never felt like hers.

"Not even a braid or two?" The servant girl prompted.

"No, just straight and brushed," Sansa replied.

"You look beautiful, Queen Sansa."

"I'm not Queen yet," Sansa replied, smiling warmly at the girl as she turned.

"But you are," The girl replied, stepping back to untie the dress Sansa had finished this morning, "In the ways that matter. This is just for show, this big ceremony."

Sansa couldn't fault her there. She probably could do without a coronation, but was it bad for Sansa to admit she wanted one? She wanted to have it be official, unquestionably, and she wanted to see her bannermen bow. Sansa knew herself well enough that she needed that affirmation.

Two more girls waited outside of Sansa's door to help carry the train.

At the door of the Great Hall, Sansa paused for just a moment, inhaling. She allowed the girls to bustle around her, settling her robes and train and gown just right. She could hear the conversation of the bannermen outside the doors.

"Whenever your ready, my Queen."

She walked slowly through the men. The sea parted for her like she was a goddess stepping down to earth. Above her, the swords created a walkway. The extensions of the men almost felt like branches on a tree, interlocking- metal upon metal- keeping her safe.

Her throne was not as ostentatious as the Iron Throne, that no longer existed, but it was the seat her father had sat on for decades before her. When she sat down, a part of her felt very small compared to it, like how she'd slipped her tiny foot into her father's boot when she was six and stumbled around laughing.

Then, the crown was placed upon her head, and Sansa felt like this was exactly right for her.

"To the Queen in the North!"

The crows of the men and women all around her rushed to her, warming her heart. Looking out, it was true none of her family or familiar faces from the past couple moons were here. She would have been overjoyed if she even saw Brienne or Pod or Tyrion, but alas, they served a different Stark now.

There was a second, just the most fleeting, where Sansa almost felt empty by the hole in her heart.

Then, Sansa could have sworn she saw them.

She wasn't one to believe in ghost stories. She'd been furious when Theon and Robb and Jon would dare each other to tell a scarier tale during the cold winter nights, hating ideas of bloody men coming snapping at her toes. She'd lived through most of the horrors they'd japed about, so nothing much scared Sansa anymore. Still, she thought the idea of apparitions was just a little unbelievable.

At that moment, she almost recanted that.

She thought she saw her mother and father in the crowd, her mother crying and her father raising his sword to join the arched promise of fealty. She thought she glimpsed Rickon in a window ledge, having scampered up out of the stern watchful eye of their mother. She thought she spotted Theon shouting louder than any of them. She thought she felt Robb's warm hands on her shoulders, and she swore he kissed the top of her head.

_We did it, Robb, we did it,_ Sansa cried in her mind, blinking back tears.

"No Sansa," Robb's voice carried ever so faintly on the breeze that made the candles in the room flicker, "You did."

_VII_

"Is this who remains?" Sansa looked around the Great Hall, counting off the greater vassal houses sworn to her, her forehead wrinkling with concern. It was three days after her coronation and Sansa was not going to waste time restoring her land back to the glory it deserved. Part of that was making sure that her Lords and Ladies were all situated. She could have no supplies reaped until the bones of the houses were settled and people began to live again.

"Many died during the battles, your grace," Alys Karstark replied, head of the Karstark household. Sansa had begun to look toward the young girl as a blessedly familiar face, happy to see another female standing tall and taking charge. She would be disappointed when Alys would return to her own home, as she'd started to see the girl as a friend. Alys smiled at Sansa, a sad one at that.

Sansa counted off the houses in her head.

There were some that were extinct; House Mormont, House Umber, and thankfully House Bolton. Her heart still clenched thinking of both little Ned and Lyanna, felled in the war against the dead, who should be standing here to represent their respective houses. The gaping hole left by them was felt by everyone; empty chairs and forlorn faces.

All three had forts lying abandoned. This would need to be remedied.

There were still more spots empty.

She did not think Alys was lying; a great number had been killed. That did not excuse the gaps in her Great Hall.

"Did all the Tallhearts perish?" Sansa asked, tilting her head. She had recalled seeing one of the Tallhearts put onto the pikes, killed during the battle, but she didn't think the entire line had been decimated.

"The eldest son, Brandon, died while he was a captive. The other son, Beren, died during the battle here," Lord Glover said.

Sansa tapped her chin in thought, her fingers creating a soft rhythmic pattern, "And their mother, Berena, did she too die?"

"Well, no, your grace-,"

"Then why is she not here?" Sansa asked firmly. There was a quiet silence that told her everything, "Your ruler is a Queen, you all do realize? I am sorry to have to say this out loud, especially since we named Alys as the Karstark head long ago, but any heir- male or female- will take the seat if it comes to them. Daughters inherit before uncles and nephews. Berena is the head of the Tallhearts. Now, with that in mind, how many of the houses have completely died out?"

In the end, with some muttering and quiet discussion about a daughter or sister or mother taking hold of the titles, there were still five houses where the last heir had breathed their last breath. In addition to the three Sansa already was mourning- at least where it concerned the Umbers and the Mormonts- House Dormund and House Ryswell were also without anyone to claim their halls.

"We will fill the voids that exist," Sansa said, scribing the information as it was received, "Firstly, if there are any known bastards that hail from those five houses, you may present their names for me with consideration of legitimization. If there are none that anyone knows of, I would like to award some of the lesser bannermen who have been loyal to my family. I have some ideas in mind, but if anyone would like to offer up a lesser house that you feel deserves recognition, I would be pleased to take that into consideration. I hope that the next time we all must meet, all the seats of the North are filled."

Sansa stood, carefully rolling her parchment, "I will be in here again tomorrow to hear petitions. As of now, you are all free to leave."

She left without turning back. Once in her solar, she began to pen letters to the women that would be asked to take over their house seats, inviting them to Winterfell. She did not claim to know everything about running a house as a male would, but she knew enough. She did not want any of the women to feel like they were just waiting for the day another male heir was born.

Sansa would teach them in her image, and bolster her Northern houses with girls who once perhaps thought their only goal in life was to marry. Sansa would offer them a different path.

_VIII_

_Dear Queen Sansa,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. I heard you had made it safely back to the North, and a part of me breaths easier knowing such. The word has spread that your coronation has happened, and King Bran has told us all that it was a good ceremony. It has been an adjustment going from protecting you and your sister to protecting your brother, but I am happy to serve the Starks until the end of my days._

_If it has not already been brought to your attention, King Bran has decided to uphold my knighting that Ser Jamie bestowed upon me before the battle at Winterfell, and I could not have been more pleased. Going further, King Bran has asked me to be his Commander of the Kingsguard. Even if I could decline- and we saw how persuasive he was when Tyrion attempted to do so as well- I would not wish to and took the position immediately. We are slowly regathering our wits and rebuilding here, and most of the Lords and Ladies have gone home. As King Bran gathers his whitecloaks, I have in turn decided to make Podrick a knight. I feel as though he deserves it, and has for some time. I feel like he will wish to stay near me and the king, so he will likely ask to join the Kingsguard as well. By the time the letter has reached you, he will have already been knighted._

_As for King Bran's council, we have Tyrion as the hand, as most know. Ser Davos has been appointed the Master of Ships. Bronn, now Lord of Highgarden and the Reach, is the Master of Coins-he certainly knows how to spend coin, we'll see how good he is at saving it. The Grandmaester is Samwell Tarly, although he does agree he'll need to finish some classes in the future. I suspect that King Bran is doing so in an effort to show all of his appreciation for what Sam has helped us with in the past. We do not have the other seats filled, but I know in time we shall._

_I doubt you will have heard anything future, but the last we heard of the final dragon was he was heading toward Volantis. I don't think we'll see from him again in our lifetimes, but stranger things have happened._

_King Bran has already expressed a desire to return to Winterfell, if not for practical reasons. We outlined about four times we'll return, at intervals, or that is to say, a representative will. We will be firstly returning to gather any items King Bran wishes to bring back with him to the Capitol. Once the Small Council is complete, we will come again to discuss the exact terms of how our two Kingdoms will exist from here on out. I suspect other meetings will be about imports and exports and terribly boring things. Still, as much as King Bran claims 'not to want', I'd like to think it's because he still wishes to see you._

_I am sending letters to your sister as well. I hear she is at Storm's End. I will leave it with the thought I am glad she is truly happy. I hope you are too._

_With much love,_

_Ser Brienne_

_Dear Ser Brienne,_

_While you may serve my brother now, I am thrilled to get a letter from you. I will always consider you one of my greatest friends and I hope that we can remain so, even with the lines drawn between us._

_I have not yet gotten the chance to gather my council, but King Bran I'm sure has many people readily offering themselves. Likewise to as you said, when we both have our best advisers at our backs, we will indeed need a lengthy discussion about how we will proceed. I'm glad to hear that it sounds Bran will come here; I will not be coming to King's Landing, if you so understand. On that note, Bran is welcome to return at any time, but I'd suggest a smaller convoy. The last time the Southern King rode into Winterfell, many great tragedies followed. Plus, I can't say that my men are not still wary, even if a Stark sits on the throne._

_Just give me proper notice, and I will be sure to make arrangements for when you wish to come._

_Love,_

_Queen Sansa_

_Ps; Send Ser Podrick my heartfelt congratulations! He entirely deserves it and I honestly could not be more pleased._

_Dear Queen Sansa,_

_Your congratulations have been received. I dreamed often about the day I would become a knight, but it is better than anything I could have wished for. I know that fighting for you, at Winterfell, was a significant part of what lead me to the knight I am today. I will never be able to repay you and the North. I am pleased to serve your brother, King Bran, in his Kingsguard, but know that Ser Brienne and I discussed at length coming back to serve you. I might have, and perhaps it's not right of me to say, had you not encouraged Ser Brienne that King Bran perhaps needed us more._

_I believe King Bran will ask me on his first trip back to his birth home. With that in mind, I will see you within a few moons._

_Cordially,_

_Ser Podrick_

_IX_

Sansa's stomach growled as she dismissed the ladies she'd invited to Winterfell. Most of them had been overly willing to come to their Queen's fort if even for a quarter moon, to learn under Sansa about how to run their household.

Sansa was realizing very quickly that, like her, most women had picked up most of the necessary skills to run a household from watching their fathers, brothers, or husbands for years before. The one thing they were missing was the confidence to make big decisions, ones that would have always been left up to a male.

"You shouldn't," Sansa had told them, "Because either one of two things will be true." Sansa held up two fingers, bending them down as she talked, "One, it will benefit your household and you can be satisfied in knowing you've made the right choice. Or, two, it will have been the wrong choice, but that's fine too. Not without some guilt, yes, but that's how one learns. However, we all know if it had been your husband, say, that would have made the wrong call, hardly anyone would say anything. Perhaps his King or his advisors, as I will try to do for all of you. I keep all of your houses best interests at heart."

"So," The young Cardina Mazin asked, brow furrowed, "You're saying we should rule as men?"

She was a young thing, having just reached her ten and third year. Her face was still dewy looking, a soft pink tinge to her cheeks and lips and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She sat up straight, hair braided elaborately each morning, and hung on Sansa's word like it was gospel.

"Men ruling has gotten us into more trouble than I can count, and women have far more intelligent, I've gathered, so no," Sansa's lip twitched in a smile, "I wish you to rule as females that have the oversold confidence of men."

There was a rusty laugh from Berena Tallheart, and at least a couple other women smirked. Sansa looked out the windows, realizing it was near dinner. She should get ready for the meal. Politely, she dismissed herself from the studying occurring.

Sansa stopped down by the kitchens for just a moment, spying a plate of lemon cakes freshly baked. Feeling like a mischievous child again, Sansa glanced around before reaching a hand out to snatch a piece. She knew she could just as well have one in about an hour or so, but her stomach wouldn't have it.

She ate it in three quick bites, licking the snowy white sugar from her fingers, savoring the ever-so-familiar taste.

"Some things, it seems, never change."

Sansa stiffened, the voice calling back to something long forgotten. It was a ghost of a memory, something that had been shoved so far down Sansa had forgotten it had existed.

As soon as she heard it, she was awash with giggles under heavy feather blankets, braiding each other's hair by candle, gossiping about the strapping boys that came through Winterfell as soldiers, and that final hug as Sansa had left for King's Landing. It all just rushed back over her skin, like a warm bath, a softness that Sansa didn't know she'd missed until now.

She turned, picking up the heavy hems of her gowns to hasten across the space, before throwing her arms around her oldest friend.

"My Queen, let me bow to you! This is hardly proper!"

"Oh, Jeyne, please quit it," Sansa laughed, pulling away, "I thought you dead after Theon-," Sansa couldn't finish, the words choking down. He'd been absolved of his sins, but many did not see it that way.

"We escaped. Theon he...he let me go," Jeyne looked away.

"That doesn't matter, not now," Sansa insisted, tugging Jeyne out toward her own private study, "I'm just so pleased for you to be home."

"I have missed Winterfell," Jeyne gave a long sigh, a sad smile on her face as she turned around, looking at the worn halls, "I've heard that you haven't yet found your handmaids."

"I haven't found anyone yet," Sansa admitted, falling back into the safety of confiding in Jeyne. As children, they'd known all of each other's darkest secrets. It felt like no time had passed to admit this to her, "They never claimed it was easy, I suppose."

"Queen Sansa-,"

"Just Sansa," Sansa stopped her with a firm stare but a warm grin, "We have known each other far too long for you to use formalities as though we're strangers."

"I was going to say that, if you'd have me, I'd be honored to be your handmaid," Jeyne said.

Sansa examined her for a second, head tilted and tongue pressed against the back of her teeth. She pulled out the sheet she'd drawn up of all the titles within Winterfell's walls that still needed to be filled. It was indeed a great many.

"Any girl can be a proper handmaid," Sansa began slowly, "And it is not what I am in the direst need of." Jeyne was now frowning at Sansa, unsure, "Jeyne, do you remember your father's duties here?"

Jeyne opened her mouth, then closed it. When she spoke again, she was shaking her head, "Surely you don't mean...there has to be others."

"Perhaps, but I'm asking you," Sansa said, "You grew up as the daughter of the Steward and I want the people closest to me to be those that I trust implicitly. I know your father gave his life for my family, and I know you would have done the same."

"My Queen," Jeyne choked out like she couldn't quite believe it, "Do you not think there may be some...arguments about naming me the new Steward?"

Sansa shrugged, already penning her name down, "Perhaps. However, as we've established, I am the queen, so," She looked up, smiling, "It's not really any of their places to do anything."

_X_

_Dear Arya,_

_I dearly miss you. I wish you were home. I had gotten so used to talking to you while in King's Landing that it just feels empty here without you. Without any of our siblings, honestly, but you're actually the hardest ghost to deal with. I feel like you should be here with me, sharing this honor and triumph. I suppose I can't fault you when you've found happiness- and yes, it is happiness. I don't believe you for a second when you say you've 'just found a good shag'. I think that you can have absolutely have found a good shag (and, well, I'm pleased that Lord Baratheon treats you well, or else I may have to call for his head) but have also found some joy. Something to consider._

_If you ever are feeling homesick, I implore you to return. I have not yet filled out my entourage...well, any of them yet. Around the time you killed the Night King is the time I stopped pretending you'd ever grow up to be a lady like myself, and that's okay. If you came back, I'd find someone to knight you if you wanted and you could be the head of my safety guard. I'm unsure if I wish to call it a Queensguard or have a Small Council. There is something to be said about not mirroring the Six Kingdoms._

_Deep down, I know you won't return, and I suppose I will have to make peace with that._

_So far, I have only named Jeyne Poole as the new Steward. She returned three days ago, can you believe it? I'm so thrilled to have her here!_

_I still need practically every other position filled. I very much respect your opinion (well, most of them), so if you have any ideas I would be interested to hear them._

_Lately, I'm just feeling so tired. I suppose it's not fair to have me complain about being Queen, as this is exactly what I asked for, but it's exhausting to rebuild. I am excited to bring us into the future, but there seems to be so much to be done. I know as soon as I gather my council it will get easier, but as it is, I feel like I am juggling thirty things at once. Naming a council is somehow on the last part of my mind. I find myself unable to sleep, just always thinking of what I need to do tomorrow. Do you think it gets better? Is this how Father felt all the time? Gods, I hope not…_

_As always, I love you and hope to hear from you soon,_

_Your sister_

_Sansa,_

_I am perfectly content here with Gendry, as I think you already know. One day I may return, but for right now, that's just not where I need to be. If I did return, I'm not sure it would be permanent. I have been thinking about it and, well...you might be right. About Gendry, that is. That will be the only time I'll ever say that, so...yeah. Don't get used to it._

_I am happy to hear Jeyne has survived. A part of me wants to remind you that perhaps I shouldn't since she always used to call me horseface and make fun of me, but I suppose I made both of your lives a little miserable too? I've seen too much to be upset about petty childhood things, so yes, I'm happy she's alive. I'm sure that it also probably infuriated some of the stuffy old men when you named her. Which to that, I say, good._

_As for who else to suggest, I honestly don't know. I don't know who is still alive and who isn't. I trust you'll figure it out, though. You always do._

_Finally, as to your tiredness and all, no, I don't think it will be like that always. I think you have a lot on your plate right now. Speaking from experience (and, we're talking very good experience), I truly think you just need a good night of relaxation. If I'm not being clear enough, you need to have a decent fuck. I'm absolutely sure that any of the young men around Winterfell would be MORE than happy to assist their Queen in this endeavor. Trust me; a good roll in the hay does wonders. You could have a different one a night, if you so pleased, to figure out what flavor you like. It might be just as exciting as much as it provides relief and tires you out._

_I think we both can admit that's truly the problem._

_Love, Arya_

_Dear Arya,_

_No._

_Sansa_

_(Ps. You know exactly what I'm talking about)_


	4. T H R E E

_XI_

Much of Sansa's time used felt like it was just writing letters. Writing until her hand was cramped and her fingers were blotchy with ink and burned from where the hot wax had scalded her skin. She was writing frequently enough that she considered having a secondary scribe brought in, and Sansa would dictate, but she was particular about the way she wrote. She didn't want anyone else doing it. Her words were her own and she could not allow someone else to claim that.

She mostly found herself conversing with Arya, and by extension, Lord Gendry. He hadn't yet learned how to read and write, so in the meantime, Arya was helping him with his letters.

You know this almost means you're his lady, Sansa had pointed out, hopeful that Arya could hear the smirk in her words.

No, it doesn't, Arya had replied, stubborn as ever.

In fact, Sansa had never felt so comforted by all those who were in positions of power. She felt like she could send any one of them a raven and it would not be strange. There was her uncle Edmure at Riverrun, who she'd restarted a family correspondence with. Her cousin Robin at the Vale and he actually seemed wiser than the last time they'd met. Or, at least, wanting to make things better, which is what mattered. Gendry in the Storm Lands. The new Dornish Lord had actually reached out to Sansa first- Xachryis Martell- with an offer in marriage. Sansa had politely declined, but she got the feeling he was asking because it was what was expected, not that he thought she'd agree. So far, he was pleasant to talk to, but Sansa was being cautious.

Then, in King's Landing, Sansa had many ravens flying back and forth. None, ironically, being her brother...the Three-Eyed Raven.

Ser Brienne was her main confidant. Ser Davos penned on occasion, and Sansa got the feeling he felt like he should take Arya and Sansa under his wing as Brienne had. A father figure. No one could ever replace Eddard Stark, but Ser Davos was almost like the grandfather she'd never known.

Lord Tyrion wrote about every once a moon, and they'd reached some sort of strange friendship in the aftermath of the whole thing. Unexpectedly, the letters from Ser Podrick were beginning to appear with increasing frequency.

Sansa could, of course, not write him back and that would be that. However, it wasn't as though any of his letters were inappropriate and she was quite enjoying hearing the news of King's Landing from a different perspective. He had a quiet wit, one that was born from serving under Tyrion and Brienne, that she could just see the sparest hints of. It made her want to uncover more.

There were only two locations Sansa gave pause to write letters to.

The first was Bronn, new Lord of Highgarden, for Sansa couldn't imagine having much to discuss with him. And, she frankly didn't want to expend the energy in wading through his suggestive comments and lascivious statements.

The second was Yara of the Iron Islands.

She shouldn't be afraid of writing. It wasn't the strong-willed girl she feared as much as the conversations that would come of it. Her brother had died at Winterfell and this was something Sansa felt she was unprepared to unpack.

It was not something she could put off forever, though.

"You wanted to see me, my Queen?" Jeyne tapped on the door to the library.

"Yes, please," Sansa waved her in. In the days since she'd been installed as Steward, Sansa already felt her responsibilities starting to lift off her shoulders as Jeyne started to delegate tasks. She took any task head-on, forging through with confidence that Sansa didn't recall from their childhood. They were all different people now, Sansa supposed.

"I would like you to find where they are keeping the bones of those we burned after the battle here," Sansa asked, doing away with niceties. They would have time to smile and laughter later in the evening when the work was done.

Jeyne nodded resolutely. Sansa didn't imagine her to know right now where they were, but she was assured that Jeyne would find that out.

"And when I do?" She asked.

"Come find me and bring me there, even if I am in the middle of something."

Jeyne bowed as she left and Sansa looked at the half-started letter to Yara, probably her eighth or ninth attempt. Most of the copies landed squarely in the trash, but it was something she could no longer justify putting off.

It took less than a day. In fact, mere hours later, Jeyne politely caught Sansa's attention.

"They're in a storage room. Any family members that wished to collect bones, any that could be notified, have been allowed to collect them."

Sansa followed her to the dusty hall. The walls clung to the stench of death, a smell from the battle Sansa would never shake. There were lit candles along the walls along with carefully marked boxes. Sansa felt a sob catch in her throat as she stared at the hundreds of tiny graves, and that was with the thought some had already been claimed and put to rest. Seeing all the men on the pyres had been shocking. Seeing all the boxes here was chilling.

Up front were the boxes of the most significant. Sansa took off her gloves, lightly touching the box that held Lyanna. It was smaller compared to the rest, and there was something utterly heartbreaking in this. Jorah's was right next to hers. She made a mental note to send a letter to Jon and Sam, asking which one of the two would want to have Lord Commander Edd's bones.

Then, coming upon it suddenly, was Theon's. She didn't even have to look at the name, for the pin she had slipped into his armor was on top.

"Didn't your mother give you that pin when you turned ten?" Jeyne asked, recognizing it.

"Yes, and I gave it to him. He spent so much of his life trying to figure out if he was a Stark or a Greyjoy," Her bottom lip quivered. "He was both."

Her hands hovered above it, but Sansa could not touch it. In a corner was his dented and dirty Greyjoy armor, blackened with soot and reddened with blood.

Sansa could not pick it up. The idea that Theon, everything that was left of him, lay in that box made everything hurt. Some part of her had imagined him walking it off, leaving after the battle, moving on. She hoped his soul was at peace. She couldn't bear picking up the box and hearing his bones clanking around, knowing that his impossibly ruffled light ginger hair, his charming smile, and his sea-green eyes were well and truly gone.

"Should I pick it up, Sansa?" Jeyne's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yes, please," Sansa said, finding the words hard to speak, "And then put it...bring it…"

"Perhaps to your solar, my queen?"

"Yes, there," Sansa said, grateful for her suggestion.

Jeyne asked Sansa if she wanted a friend, once they were back up in the halls, but Sansa shook her head.

"I'm fine."

Whether or not Jeyne believed this obvious lie Sansa wasn't sure.

In her solar, Theon's bones were placed in a cabinet. Out of sight, the better, Sansa originally thought. Until guilt came over her and she took the box out, holding her breath until it was sitting on her desk.

"I'll do right for you, as much as I can," Sansa told the slightly dusty parcel. Her fingers wiped away the dust with reverence, tracing down the edges of the box, inhaling deeply as she held back the feelings that were twisting in her chest.

She took out her tenth draft to Yara and sent the raven off by nightfall.

XII

_Dear Lady Yara,_

_Is that what you would prefer to be called? What title would you like best?_

_I apologize for taking such an extended time to contact you. I wish to have blamed it on the business that I have felt of late, but in all honesty, that sounds like I had forgotten your brother. The idea you might think that makes me want to speak plainly; I found myself avoiding this letter for it difficult to write. It is, in many ways, easier to pretend that Theon survived and I do not have to admit what makes me so sad._

_I know that King Bran already informed you of Theon's death and how heroic it was. I know he also informed you we had to burn the bodies, in fear of the Night King return. As it is also Winter, the ground does not allow for graves, and thusly burning is more traditional. Theon spoke of home enough for me to know that the Ironborn are given water funerals, and trust me when I say it breaks my heart that I could not give that to him. If we had the time or resources, I would have ridden with his body to the shore and set him off the way he deserves._

_As it is, we have his bones here, and his armor. I have no qualms sending the armor back to you, in case you'd like it as a memento or to pass it along to a new young soldier. It's dirty, but still in good shape._

_More specifically, though, I write to ask about his bones. While he is an Ironborn, he is also a Stark and I know that he loved both sides of his identity equally. I know you recognize this too, or else would not have allowed him to come here to fight for us. It is a tradition for Starks to be buried in the Crypts. Theon was a Stark in all but name. He was in every other way that mattered._

_If it is agreeable to you, I would very much like to keep half of his bones to do as I said above. You can have the other half if you'd still like to give him as much of a proper burial as you can._

_If this is something we can come to an accord upon, send me a Raven back and the next time that someone leaves Winterfell and the North to go to the Six Kingdoms, I will send half his bones and armor back to you._

_Queen Sansa_

_Sansa_

_How dare you-_

_It's your fault that he-_

_Queen Sansa, I_

_I_

_You bitc_

_Theon_

_Sansa,_

_I apologize for the lack of formality, but as you understand, King Bran is my king and you are not my queen. I do not mean any disrespect._

_You may call me Lady Greyjoy, although I think we both know I'm about as much as a lady as your sister is. Titles are important, so I won't argue that too much._

_As you might be able to glean from the smudges above, I too had trouble properly writing this letter and that has also led to the late reply._

_I won't hide it; a part of me hates the fact that Theon died with you and he was so far from the sea. A part of me wishes I'd never let him go. A part of me really wants to hate you._

_Maybe a small part of me does._

_A part of me snapping at you during the council was because of this. I'm not perfect, never claimed to be, but I can come to terms with it._

_A bigger part of me almost wants to demand all his bones back._

_However…_

_I also love Theon and I know Theon. You and your siblings were his family when he only had me and didn't know I was even alive. Ned Stark was probably a better father than our own ever would have been to him. He loved Winterfell maybe more than he loved being a Greyjoy._

_He'll fucking haunt me forever if I don't agree to let him be buried with the rest of you._

_I don't think we'll ever be friends, but I can compromise for the sake of Theon. I can be cordial because I know that's how all of this works and that's what King Bran is preaching._

_I will be expecting half his bones and his armor the soonest it can be sent._

_I will answer any future ravens if they pertain to the success of the Kingdoms thriving._

_Lady Yara Greyjoy of the Iron Islands_

_XIII_

Late at night, under the covers, Sansa and Jeyne shared a warm pot of tea and a plate of lemon finger cakes.

Sometimes, more lately than not, Jeyne and Sansa ended up in Sansa's big bed, laughing and giggling and talking about Winterfell as they fell asleep. It felt familiar to Sansa; Jeyne had often had unauthorized sleepovers with Sansa before. It was like falling asleep next to a sister or her mother. She knew there were whispers about Sansa's inclinations behind her back, but Sansa let them whisper. If it meant she managed to fall asleep more frequently than before, she'd ignore it.

For as much joy as Jeyne brought Sansa, a childhood playfulness she hadn't felt in what felt like eons, Sansa could tell there was a darkness that lurked beneath her eyes too. They hadn't touched such topics yet, but for every moment that Sansa toed those dark conversations, she got the feeling that Jeyne too had seen far too much for her young eyes.

So, Sansa considered, as much as she needed this, perhaps Jeyne did too.

One night, it seemed Jeyne could be silent no longer.

"I almost had a family."

They'd been talking about how some of the young boys and girls who now were the Lords and Ladies of their houses resembled their late mothers and fathers, so it wasn't a wholly unreasonable jump. It did give Sansa a moment of quiet, however.

Somewhere deep, Sansa knew she didn't mean she had a father and sisters and a mother. Sansa knew it meant something more. The something Sansa had always dreamed about as a child.

Sansa was silent but gave Jeyne an encouraging look. She didn't want to scare her friend from telling her, especially since it seemed to weigh on her particularly tonight.

"We met after I escaped Winterfell. His name was Handon and he had the most gorgeous green eyes. I made myself useful as a maid at Last Hearth; I was just trying to keep my head down, forget about my father, not catch the attention of whoever was trying to take over Winterfell currently. He was a squire; like we'd always dreamed of meeting. He followed me around for days, and oh, you would have loved him, Sansa. He was so," Jeyne let out a sad, almost angry but somehow also amused sigh, "Charming."

She pursed her lips, reaching for Sansa's fingers.

"He died at the Battle of the Bastards, fighting for Jon, for the North. We both agreed it was right he ride for you. He said when he came back, he'd marry me. Make me a proper girl, even if it was obvious I wasn't since when he left I was noticeably pregnant."

A chill danced up Sansa's spine, like spiders crawling to the nape of her neck. The fact that tears were gathering in Jeyne's eyes, along with the fact no such child had accompanied her here spoke of a tragic ending.

Sansa closed her eyes, biting her lip herself, feeling a quarter of the pain that Jeyne felt. It was enough to leave her breathless.

"He was born dead," Jeyne whispered, "I knew it before it happened. He stopped kicking, you see, and I just knew. I still had to give birth to him. He would have had his father's eyes."

"Jeyne, Gods," Sansa whispered, pulling her into a hug. Jeyne buried herself in Sansa, her tiny frame shaking.

"I'm so glad I found you again, Sansa. I'm not sure how I could have continued on much longer."

"You can cry more, I don't mind," Sansa said, nothing her tears drying up. Jeyne gave a slow shake of her head.

"I cried enough before. It's just a sore ache now." She twirled a loose string of the bedsheets, "I've noticed some of the boys passing through have tried to catch my eye. Is it awful that I might have found one that's cute? Should I be mourning Handon still? No one tells you these things, you know."

"Jeyne, you deserve to be happy," Sansa said with every ounce she could muster, "Honestly."

"Thank you," Jeyne said, as though something had been lifted, "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You...I know that you have suffered, but you deserve happiness too."

Sansa inhaled sharply, "It's stories for another night. My sadness does not fit into just one session."

"You don't have to tell me anything, Sansa. I didn't tell you with the expectation you'd return it."

"No, no," Sansa furrowed her brow, "I want to talk about it all. Arya knows some, but there are things that only I've kept, hidden, eating away at me." She rolled to look up at the ceiling, "The short of it is that I was beaten, sold off like cattle, raped, manipulated, and abused," She said, her voice having no waver. Jeyne choked a little on the tea.

"Sansa, oh—," She struggled, "And here I am, complaining about a lost love!"

"Jeyne, no," Sansa looked back at her, "We can still equally share the pain. And," She gave a near conspiratorial smile, "All those who hurt me are dead right now. I am not. There is justice sometimes."

"How are you still…" Whatever Jeyne was about to ask died away, but Sansa understood the question well enough. She examined her parent's old chest of drawers. Her parents had always been humble and had chosen a room close to many other rooms, to be near their children. It wasn't the biggest or most ostentatious of bedrooms by far. Ramsey hadn't wanted small and quaint. He'd wanted the best, biggest, and most 'Kingly' room there was. The worst of her memories hadn't sullied her parent's room. She refused to walk anywhere near the room it had happened, but she felt that was more than fair. If it wasn't, well, attached to the rest of the fort, Sansa would have torn it down and burned everything in there.

"Sometimes I don't know. I just know that I had to keep fighting and I did. And it made me Queen. Now, I have my people, and they make me want to keep fighting. Some days are better, some are worse."

There was a long pause, and then Sansa cracked a smile, snorting in laughter.

"Arya would tell me to get laid. In fact, she does in her letters. Frequently."

A smile blossomed across Jeyne's face and soon both the girls were laughing so much they couldn't stop.

"It is very helpful, under the right times," Jeyne agreed with a sly grin.

Sansa didn't want to admit quite yet that she'd only ever had sex with Ramsay, and she'd hated that, but she sometimes pleasured herself when she had a lot of time and was enjoying a warm bath. That in itself did feel extremely good; she assumed sex was just about the same.

"Do you think you'll ever love again?" Jeyne asked, sobering slightly, but the mood brightened a smidge.

"I…" Sansa mulled over her words carefully in her mind before speaking, "I'm not sure I've ever been in love. Not properly anyway, not how I know it can be."

Jeyne was silent. Sansa could see her thinking.

"After all of it, then, do you think you can fall in love?"

I hope I can , Sansa whispered inwardly. Instead, she just gave a soft smile to Jeyne.

"Right now, my kingdom is all I need. I don't bother myself with questions that don't need answering."

Jeyne grunted softly, already falling asleep. Sansa herself did feel tired.

"I think that's a cowardly answer, Sans," Jeyne said, voice fuzzy with a yawn, "But I think you will. I hope you will."

_XIV_

"Great Seven," Jeyne couldn't help but blurt out the moment the pair of ladies set eyes upon the young girl standing awkwardly in the hearth room. Sansa herself had to do a double take, her gaze casting carefully over the shrouded figure, the shaking shoulders, and the bright eyes. Randin Cerwyn, the newly appointed Master of Arms, blinked, his papers almost slipping from his fingers.

"She looks just like…" Randin started, flummoxed, gathering his papers back against his chest.

Sansa strode confidently across the hall. Despite there being a large group of gathered men and women, seeking jobs here at Winterfell, and despite the fact that usually, Jeyne handled all the interviews, Sansa could not help herself.

The girl was young looking, though Sansa guessed her to be nearly ten and two. Everything from the color of her hair, the depth of her eyes, the shade of her skin, and the way she frowned in thought was all much too reminiscent of a fallen bannerman.

"My Queen," The girl said, curtsying as soon as Sansa approached. Her skirt was fringed at the bottom and dirtied from the travel. Her fingernails and hair were caked with a light dusting of mud, just enough to stain her appearance. She was so frail, Sansa realized, that the clothes on her back hung off her figure like cloth caught on a twig.

"Would you like to come with me?" Sansa asked softly, offering a hand. The girl nodded twice. Despite her age, she may have been spending most of her time away from her family, Sansa did wonder if she was seeking comforts from not having a family.

Certainly, she didn't have her father.

Jeyne snapped out of her daze, following behind. Randin followed wordlessly, eyes wide, counting back on his fingers.

"Jory, well, this would have been a year or two before your father left for King's Landing," He whispered loud enough for Sansa to hear. Jeyne threw back places she thought perhaps he had been, all the while their faces turned toward the girl.

They were talking about Jory Cassel, of course, the former Master of Arms. The Cassel line was nearly extinct, save for Beth Cassel who had dug herself out from Dreadfort, missing a finger or two from her torture. As the Cassels had always been extremely loyal, and Sansa enjoyed the poeticness about those who had survived Ramsay and his awful family, Sansa had named the Cassels a Lorded vassal family and given Beth- now Lady Beth Cassel- Dreadfort as her family's home. Sansa had also included within the raven that Beth was free to do with it as she pleased. She could dismantle it stone by stone for all Sansa cared, and Sansa may even find joy in that.

Sansa had thought Beth the last of the Cassels.

Until now.

The gods may call her a fool, but Sansa was nearly entirely sure that the girl standing before her was the bastard daughter of Jorey. It was Jory with a female face, but even her long hair and slightly more pixie features did not disguise the brave knight's familiar look. It was like seeing an apparition of the past, coming back.

"What is your name, child?" Sansa asked softly after sitting her down and out of the noisiness of the hall, a plate of food in front of her. The girl hesitated, looking at the food like it would bite her hand, "Please, eat."

Sansa leaned forward to take a small piece of the chicken the cooks had made, biting off a bit. This seemed to be the moment that the girl waited for, and dug into her food with a fury that made Sansa feel sick. This girl was so close to dying of the lack of food that it was a miracle she made it here.

"I'm Aedlayne Snow, m'Queen." The girl remembered to answer in between bites, licking her fingers. As she near finished it, she seemed to recall her manners and patted the corners of her lips with the napkin, blushing hard. Sansa only gave a quirk of a smile.

Behind her, saw Jeyne and Randin share a look in her periphery.

"Randin, can you fetch more food?"

"My queen, I couldn't-,"

"You'd be no use to me anywhere half-starved," Sansa said softly, "Do you know who your parents were?"

"My mom's dead," Aedlayne said bluntly, "And you all know who my dad is." She said. She was more clever than Sansa had originally thought. She was not to be underestimated, no, not as she flickered her gaze to Jenye and then back to Sansa.

"Jory," Sansa confirmed.

"Aye. He never knew...after it all, there was just never time."

"Usually, we might question your paternity," Randin said, returning with some vegetables, "But-,"

"I look just like him. I've heard." Now, not quite in the need of food she was moments ago, sat up straight and used her utensils just as well as any high-born girl. Despite her ratty clothes, she had formal training.

"Aedlayne, you're here to look for a job?" Sansa clarified. It was unlikely the news had reached her that Beth was now a Lady. If she went there, she'd be recognized too. Still, Sansa felt the need to protect her, keep her close.

"Yes, your excellence. My aunt suggested I come here. I am a good worker and can do most anything you need; scullery maid, cook, launderer…"

Sansa realized there were more skills than that of a lowly worker.

She had not yet found a handmaid until right now, it seemed.

"I think I have a different offer if you'd like," Sansa said.

Aedlayne's face brightened, "Whatever you think would best fit, Queen Sansa."

_XV_

_Dear Queen Sansa,_

_I thought it right that I am the one to inform you of my impending arrival (Ser Brienne told me that phrasing it this way would be a little dramatic and ominous, but it is impending and I am set to arrive)._

_While I'm sure you're aware that King Bran's official coronation isn't for another moon, I have been specifically chosen to come to Winterfell to gather most of Bran's things he may need as well as in general check up on you. I know that you'd hate that part, but deep down, Bran is your brother and we both know that Winterfell took heavy losses getting to where we are today. We can't help but worry. Or, I suppose Bran sees it. So, it's just me and Brienne that worry. I hope you're not upset by that._

_Ser Brienne was concerned that if Bran went before his coronation, he may be attacked by rebels that are left, and everyone agreed it was safest for him to stay here. There was a discussion that he could come after it was all said and done, but the timing works best now if you believe it._

_I- as well as a small group of soldiers- have been chosen. Hopefully coming with a small group will also be seen less so as an attack._

_I believe it's because Bran trusts me. It's funny; he can see any man and every awful thing they've done, so he should trust every member of his Kingsguard and other general nights, right? Still, I think a part of him is still very much human and he feels safe with me or Brienne. Or, I hope that's the case. Otherwise, I might fear he's trying to get rid of me..._

_I would very much hope that you'll spread the word so that we are not murdered the moment we set foot in the North, even though we'll be waving Stark banners. They aren't YOUR Stark banners anymore, though, which is the difference._

_I also hope you'll welcome us with hospitality._

_Ser Podrick Payne_

_Ser Podrick,_

_Of course, you're welcome in the North. Anyone who fought for us will always be a friend here, especially someone who cares for my brother. It may not be the 'smart' choice, but frankly, I grow weary of falling into the same old patterns that our fathers and forefathers did long before we arrived. Everyone is telling me to be careful of Bran now, that his interests are not ours anymore. I realize that, and I also learned from others to never show my hand. Still, I admit, I'm not sure if that's the best path, considering all of those people died hideous, sad deaths after sad lives._

_I digress, I suppose. My ruling philosophies are likely boring you._

_The point of the letter is to assure you that no harm will come to you and the men with you. You will have a place at Winterfell and be treated like the heroes you are. As long as I rule, you have a friend here._

_I look forward to your visit,_

_Queen Sansa_

_Dear Queen Sansa,_

_I doubt I could ever tire of reading your letters, no matter how boring you may think the subject matter to be. You could copy a Maester's history and I may still be equally as enraptured._

_By the time you receive this raven, I will be long on my way._

_I will see you within the moon,_

_Ser Podrick Payne_


	5. F O U R

_XVI_

"Queen Sansa! We can see your brother's flags on the horizon!"

Sansa stood quickly, the chair knocking back and tumbling over. Her heart filled with joy until she recalled that it wouldn't be Bran. And, even if he had made the trip, he was no longer the bright-eyed curious boy who she'd watched over and mourned over when the news reached her of his 'death'. A part of Sansa expected her emotions to temper, but she still felt that strange tell-tale flutter down in the deepest parts of her stomach, one that would not quell.

"Thank you, sir. I'll be down to greet them in a moment," Sansa dismissed him. The young squire paused before darting over to set the chair back to standing, stuttering out a couple of words of parting as he left. The way his cheeks blushed and the way his eyes stayed glued to the floor reminded Sansa so much of Podrick when she first met him when he was a squire for Tyrion.

_One day,_ she almost wanted to tell him, you'll get there. If Podrick can do it, you surely can.

Podrick...he was going to be in the arriving group. Sansa did not realize how excited she was for his arrival until she was tending at the gates and her whole body was still shaking slightly. To have any familiar faces was like finding life over and over and over again; it was the joy she'd experienced reconnecting with Jeyne or any other members of her father's former household.

She walked slowly down to the main courtyard. She could see the Stark flags waving in the distance. Perhaps not 'Stark' anymore. She'd been informed by Podrick and Tyrion in letters that Bran has asked for a change to them. It would be very convincing to have two opposing Stark flags. It still was the warm gray colors that her father had loved to wear and there was still a dire wolf, but behind the head of the howling wolf was a raven. Appropriate; Sansa thought with a small snort. It did set the two houses apart now. She wondered if Bran would change his name until she realized it didn't matter. He would not have any natural-born heirs, rather give the title on to the next worthy soul.

It was a small convoy. Only eight. If it were more, Sansa wasn't sure what would happen. Already, she saw her guards eyeing the group with trepidation. They had good reason to hate King's Landing and all from it, even if now Bran was the King. If Sansa had married Joffrey, and things had progressed how she'd excitedly explained to her mother years ago, maybe they would have given her the same cautious welcome.

Sansa was standing at the front gates.

"My Queen, I'm sure that we can escort them to the hall for you," Randin Cerywn said, "It's chilly out."

"I'm sure you are capable of that," Sansa replied, face stony, "But I will welcome them here."

Jeyne came to stand next to Sansa and Alys parted the crowd to stand near Sansa as well. She'd be returning to Fort Karstark within the moon, having now settled as much as she could here. Sansa was pleased that the welcoming front was women, as she felt it set the tone. Not that she expected Podrick to guffaw at the idea of Sansa ruling as a woman alone, but the other knights may harbor some...outdated ideals.

Ser Podrick lead the procession, riding in on a stormy gray horse that towered over Sansa. It was a great deal larger than the rest and Sansa wondered if it was a destrier. She almost wondered where he acquired one until she remembered that Ser Podrick had the King's favor now, and that was worth quite a lot. It certainly set him apart, gave him an air of confidence Sansa was unsure she'd ever seen on him. It was obvious the other members of the party deferred to him.

A handful of stable-boys rushed forward to grasp the reins as Podrick dismounted.

As Podrick patted his horse's side comfortingly, Sansa glanced around her. Most of her men at least recalled Podrick, and were looking at him with welcome, or at least a lack of hostility. Jeyne's face was impassive, thoughtful. When Sansa looked at Alys, she noticed a blush slowly creeping up the young girl's face, all the way to her ears. Alys' gaze was locked onto Podrick.

Sansa frowned, a strange feeling bubbling beneath the excitement at the realization that Alys may have a crush on the young knight. It was something Sansa did not enjoy feeling at all, but she wasn't sure what it was, to be frank.

As soon as Podrick had handed off his horse, he turned immediately to Sansa.

"Queen Sansa," He said, bowing before her. Now all the way to the ground, as though she were his queen, but enough to show the utmost respect. He raised his face to her.

"Ser Podrick," Sansa replied. His lips twitched as though he was attempting to keep a smile off his face and his eyes were lit up with something that reminded Sansa of sunlight.

She was just so happy he was here.

He stood, turning first to Alys, but before he could finish his greeting, Sansa had grasped onto him.

She knew it would be better for her to maintain her mask of indifference and emotionlessness. She knew that there would be talk, again. She knew that showing the obvious pleasure to a member of their enemy- and yes, Bran was their enemy in the literal sense- was foolish.

But...Sansa could list off the people she trusted implicitly between two hands. Less than ten people alive that Sansa trusted her life with, and that she knew would not forsake her, no matter the lines between them. It was a startlingly small number. More than that, it was a smaller group that she considered a _friend_, something she feared would vanish entirely now that she was Queen.

It wasn't really Podrick she thought of, not at first, but Theon.

Specifically, she was thinking about how she- out of everything she'd ever done- would not regret greeting him with emotion when he'd arrive. She would not take back that moment in the hall, nor any of their short moments after.

It was this reminder that caused her to pull Podrick into a hug in front of the whole courtyard.

"Queen-," Podrick broke off, obviously shocked and unprepared. Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck, inhaling his distinctly southern musk; something spicy and warm and almost earthy. After a moment, Podrick hugged her back. He grasped her tightly; not just a person hugging back for the sake of not looking strange, but like he actually wanted to. She did have the thought that this might be the first time she'd touched him more than just passing on the shoulder or arm, but something felt right and familiar about it anyway.

Sansa knew that any longer would be entirely improper, so she untangled herself.

"I'm glad you're here, Ser Podrick," She said, nodding.

"I...erm, yes, my-your Lady, I mean, my Queen."

Any confidence Podrick had while riding in seemed to be momentarily wiped away as he stared at Sansa with the most peculiar expression, his face nearly as red as Sansa's hair.

"Lady Poole is my house Steward. She will settle you and your men into your rooms. I will go and inform the kitchens of your arrival and we'll eat in an hour. I will see you then," Sansa said briskly, returning her carefully controlled face of expressions. Underneath it all, she was shaking, her heart thumping harder than she could ever recall.

"Yes, Queen Sansa," Podrick said, his voice a little rough, his eyes watching her carefully.

As Sansa weaved back to the main hall, Randin caught up with her.

"I don't mean to insult, my queen-,"

"Then don't," Sansa snapped, having no patience for such flubbing around.

"That was...perhaps an improper display."

Sansa turned to Randin, raising an eyebrow, "According to who?"

"To tradition! And to-,"

Sansa raised a single hand, "Ser Podrick fought for Winterfell and was part of the group that helped us survive. Not only that, he protected me when I had few others. He is a friend to the North, sir. I think we can all agree that we've spent far too much time not expressing ourselves to those that matter, wouldn't you agree?"

"But he's a knight from the Kingdoms-,"

"Oh?" Sansa said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "Thank you for bringing that to my attention. I'll remember to stab him in the chest before I hug him next time."

"I'm not saying you have to kill him," Randin was now struggling, his face pale.

"Either he is a friend and we should be allowed small moments of acknowledging this, as I just did, or he is a foe and in that case, we should kill him on sight. I will not fall into these silly games that Littlefinger always puppeted, it is one or the other. Which will it be?" Sansa questioned, "Please, Randin, make up your mind." She finished simply, turning away to talk to the kitchens.

She had no tolerance for any of the bullshit that told her she wasn't allowed to express joy about the arrival of her friend.

_XVII_

Sansa could not sleep. It was the first night of the party from the South arriving. Jeyne was sleeping in her own room, as it would be improper for this to continue when there were visitors. She'd stayed with Sansa until the moon was rising high into the sky, but had bid her best friend a good night with a half-sorry smile.

Sansa was restless.

She threw on a heavy cloak, lighting a candle on her desk. She waved out a flint stick, holding the flame up and putting a hand around it to protect it from the winds that whispered through her bedroom.

Outside, the walls of Winterfell were quiet. It was almost peaceful. It wasn't snowing, and it wasn't quite cold. It was simply settled, as though the stones of her home had finally found its place after so much strife and heartache.

Sansa wondered how the men were settling in. Podrick had lived here for a handful of moons, so he would be used to the feeling of curling up under heavy furs. Most of the other men who had joined him had not, as they were men plucked from King's Landing and the surrounding areas for Bran's shield. Sansa had of course provided more blankets than usual to assure their warmth, but it could take some getting used to. Just as the heat of King's Landing had felt foreign and uncomfortable in the first few moons, Sansa understood their transition. She made a mental note to talk to Gage tomorrow morning and request some warmed cider for when they broke their fast; or, perhaps better, warm mead.

Sansa found her feet trailing her around the halls of Winterfell. She hoped that a walk around would ease her into sleep. Perhaps if she tired herself out enough, it would be all too easy to fall into her bed.

There was some talk in the courtyard.

Sansa expected it to be some of the castle guards or men with weapons discussing the day, something trivial. She expected to see her own men. She did; but they were silent and respectful, nodding to Sansa as she passed.

What she did not expect to see is Podrick, looking just as lost as Sansa felt internally, hovering in the open space.

"But, ser-," One of his men under him was arguing with him quietly. Podrick just gave a sad sort of smile, one Sansa knew well, and stopped him.

"Go to sleep, Brid. I'm fine."

Brid seemed ready to argue more, but realized that Podrick would not be budged, and nodded once. He passed Sansa as he moved to his chambers, murmuring a polite and quick acknowledgment. Sansa held his gaze as he passed, tilting her head.

She turned her expression back down to Podrick.

He was staring at a wall with a nearly forlorn expression, something hard and angry and sad all at the same time. It took Sansa a moment. She may not have known for sure the meaning of this wall- one that looked entirely ordinary from her point of view- but she could read his face well enough.

She crept up on him.

"This is where you nearly died, wasn't it?"

Podrick nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Queen Sansa," He said, his face flushed, "I suppose I'm not a very good guard if I let you sneak up on me." He forced a smile.

Sansa just looked at the stone. The blood had been mostly washed away, but if one stared at it just right, the flecks of brown stains were remaining. It would always be there, Sansa felt.

Podrick swallowed hard, turning his head back toward the wall.

"Yes." He just said, all in one breathe, "I thought I would have died many times before that- at Blackwater, I was sure I was a goner, but here…"

Sansa closed her eyes hard, breathing in.

"Then Lady Arya killed him," Podrick continued.

"If Arya ever hears you call her that…" She said in one breath.

"I know. She's a lady but she's... I mean," Podrick paused, then decided to drop it once he saw Sansa's eyes glitter with humor, "I guess I didn't think I could sleep until I faced it. I walked the long way around it today, to avoid it. It's silly, it's just a wall," He looked away, "You probably find me mad."

Sansa took a step closer to him, "I don't."

Podrick glanced up, eyes quietly questioning, but not pushing or demanding. He had grown a small beard since Sansa last saw him, or the beginnings of one. It made it look not quite as childlike as before, older. His clothes were wealthy looking. Not the hobbled-together set that they'd found for him and Brienne when they'd arrived, but something of matter, something carefully crafted. There was a hint of embroidery on it. Sansa found herself analyzing it, deciding she could have done it better.

"Queen Sansa?"

Sansa opened her mouth, licking her upper lip, before deciding she wasn't quite sure how to reply. Instead, she blew out her candle, deciding to show him was better.

"Ser Podrick," Sansa said in the same tone, offering her arm to him, "If you would?"

There was just a pause that lasted a second, nothing more, before Podrick was linking his arm in hers.

Sansa brought him through the darkness of Winterfell, over the reparations and the scaffolds, through the areas where stone still lay unmoved- or just shoved to the side. She led him down a set of stairs, grasping one of the torches that they kept permanently lit of late.

"I haven't been able to come down here since the attack," Sansa finally said, her voice wavering, "I thought I was going to die too." She thought of how, like Podrick, there had been so many moments she was sure death was upon. She thought of how it was so unfair, almost mean, that in Winterfell she had most nearly met her end. How the place that was supposed to be safest for her had been spoiled. How she'd thought after Ramsay's death she could rest easy.

How nothing was really fair, and how a part of Sansa wished to run into her parent's arms and for them to make it all go away.

She wasn't sure how to explain that to anyone, but from how Podrick had stared at the wall outside, she knew that he knew the feeling too.

The crypts lay deserted at this hour. It was cleared of rubble and bones, but the reparations were far from over. It was decided that the living was a more important aspect to focus on, not to say that they didn't make sure the spirits were appeased down here.

Sansa had been asked many a time to oversee the process, but she'd found soft and weak excuses each time to avoid it. She hadn't been sure she'd ever been able to return.

"We thought it was the safest place," She continued, "And so many died down here. Mothers, girls, babies ." Her grief spilled out before she could stop it, her cheeks flushed as she tried to keep from sobbing, "I mourn the men, I do, but to see a babe no older than six moons killed by the dead is horrifying."

Podrick was silent, examining not the cavernous space, but Sansa, "And you know what the worst part was?" She asked.

"I cannot guess," Podrick whispered, lips set into a deep frown.

"Rickon." Sansa said. She tried to continue, but all at once, she was back in that moment. She could hear the clicking of bones, the rasping of throats that could not speak, and the stench of death that clung to their bodies. She heard the screaming of the men that had died moments before, and how she'd told herself that if they opened that door, they'd die too but then they all almost had anyway . She recalled how her heart was beating so loudly she was sure they could hear her like that. She remembered how hard she'd clutched the knife her sister had given her, nearly losing her grip two or three times, and how she thought that she was failing somehow, how she should have known or acted faster or-

She didn't realize that she was inhaling rapidly and unevenly, nearly crying, until she felt a soft rhythmic circle being drawn upon her back. She turned to see Podrick. As soon as she turned toward him, he jolted his hand back, like he too had been unaware. Sansa didn't know how to convey she hadn't minded, how she wished he continue.

"You don't have to…" Podrick shook his head.

"Rickon had only died a couple of moons before," Sansa found her voice. She hadn't told anyone this. Most of those that were cowering in the crypts hadn't known Rickon, and surely Tyrion hadn't. She hadn't had the courage to tell Jon or Arya. Bran knew, likely, but hadn't ever said anything to her. She'd been the one to handle it, not wishing that upon anyone else, "And while most of the dead that were brought back to life was just bones held together by magic, Rickon- my baby brother- he was almost…" She scrunched up her face, shaking. Shaking in anger, in agony, in sorrow.

"It was Rickon, but it wasn't. I could tell it was him, I could see it. He wasn't just bones, it was his face and his hair and his freckles, but he looked at me, and he was just gone. And I almost had to destroy him...if Arya hadn't…"

"Sansa, you can't," Podrick struggled, "I wouldn't want to come back down here either."

Sansa regained her breathing, breaking off a couple of feet, to Rickon's grave. She should be so lucky, she thought, that the bones of Robb and her mother were just that or that the bones of her father had been scattered, despite the best efforts to return him home. She wasn't sure she could have raised a dagger against them, even if their spirits had long since left.

"Even in death, Rickon couldn't find peace," Sansa said sadly. She looked at the ground. The head of her father's statue had been knocked off in the struggle, something awful and cruel about that. Podrick seemed to recognize this, for he swiftly grasped the statue from her, setting it away.

He pulled her into a hug, and Sansa collapsed into his arms, trying to hold back her tears. She didn't cry much, not more than a few moments, before she pulled herself together.

"I should have asked, Queen Sansa," Podrick said, "Before I touched you."

"Ser Podrick," Sansa laughed, "I know you'd never hurt me."

She looked back at the ruins.

"We're going to make all of my family's statues again. And, if anyone who died in the battle wants to be buried down here, we are allowing them. Lyanna Mormont will get a statue. Theon will get a statue," She whispered, "They died for Winterfell, they are family."

She turned back, setting the torch back in its place.

"I fear that this trip hasn't done much good, your grace." Podrick said, looking up at her face. She was sure it was blotchy with tears, her nose and cheeks rouged, and her eyes wet. She dabbed her skin with the sleeve of her gown.

"I had to go down there eventually," She said matter-of-factly, "I'm not sure if I could have done it without you."

"I'm happy to help anyway I can, then," Podrick said slowly, as though he was trying to connect two dots. Sansa herself was mulling over it, not sure what that equaled at the end of it all.

It was, as she found herself back in her room, a thought she found herself lingering on for most of the night.

_XVIII_

Sansa woke much later than usual. One cursory glance outside her window, combined with the warm feeling on her sheets that only eclipsed during the bright mid-morning, told Sansa it was hours after she woke on a normal day.

She nearly tangled her legs in the blankets as she jumped from her bed, muttering under her breath, feeling angry and embarrassed. She was Queen, it was improper of her to oversleep one of the first meals with her visitors!

She cracked her door open, just enough to summon the current guard on duty.

"Please fetch me Lady Snow," Sansa said in a cool, even tone, already running through the strict words she'd have for her maid. It was Aedlayne's job to wake her. Youngness was no excuse for mistakes of this magnitude. Great gods, didn't anyone realize their Queen was somehow I explicitly missing? Perhaps an empty seat at the table this morning would have reminded the young maid, one would think.

Sansa seethed as she brushed her own hair out.

The door opened behind her, but it was Jeyne who entered her room.

"If you're here to beg for mercy on her," Sansa said, turning, scowling, "She deserves to be reprimanded."

"Blame me, my Queen," Jeyne said simply, folding her hands in front of her.

Sansa turned, raising an eyebrow.

"You see, when Adelayne was coming to wake you, I was with her by chance, and I realized it had been a long time since I've seen you so rested. I cannot recall a day you've had a deeper slumber. I told her to hold off waking you."

"It was not-,"

"Sansa, you cannot continue on the hours of napping you've had, you surely realize. You'll run yourself into the crypts before you've had a chance for anything good. Ser Podrick also informed me that you didn't return to your room until hours past moon high. If you were awake longer, it would have been a pitiful sleep, at best." Jeyne said firmly.

At Sansa's whitened face, Jeyne continued, "Whatever friendship you have with the knight, or why he'd know what time you went to bed...you know I could never judge you, don't you?"

Sansa bit her lip. She was so used to everyone exploiting knowledge that she had to remind herself. She gave a thin nod.

"Fine, but it is very impolite to miss hosting my guests and-,"

"I easily explained it. I said you had some important business to attend to and were terribly sorry you could not join them." Jeyne said, putting on an act worthy of any thespian troupe.

Sansa snorted, "They didn't believe that, did they?"

Jeyne paused, thinking, "I'm unsure. However, it does make you seem...aloof, mysterious almost. We both know boys find some strange pleasure in this."

Sansa sat back, nodding. Jeyne wordlessly set out a dress for Sansa, unlacing the back. She helped Sansa clothe herself for the day.

"Thank you," Sansa said, "For allowing me to sleep. I don't want to make a habit of it, though."

"Of course," Jeyne readily agreed.

Sansa met with some of the men from King's Landing directly after, but Podrick was nowhere to be seen. One of the men- Brid, the man from last night- informed Sansa he was replying and making notes of the trip in the library, which Jeyne had indicated the previous night was free for him to use.

They had not yet received a maester, so the library was empty sans the young knight, hunched over his work.

"Ser Podrick?" Sansa asked, now in front of him, unsure of what to say. Podrick glanced up, grinning quickly, setting down his quill.

"I hope you slept well, Queen Sansa."

"Yes." Sansa kept the rest of what she wanted to say at the back of her throat; that she hadn't been sleeping well lately, that she couldn't recall falling so deeply to slumber, that the nights were the worst for her.

From the bleary, groggy look on Podrick's face, perhaps he too faced similar issues.

"If I am bothering you, Ser Pod-,"

"You don't have to keep calling me 'ser'," Podrick interrupted her, not quite snapping, but from his expression he hadn't meant to cut her off so swiftly.

"But…" Sansa frowned, blinking, "You're a knight now."

"I'm still the same Podrick as before," He mumbled, less assertive in his tone, "Not much has really changed."

"You're so much more than the boy I met squiring under Tyrion," Sansa insisted, "I want to call you Ser. You deserve it, Podrick, more than anyone I know. Well, besides Ser Brienne."

Podrick shook his head, "Truly, I just happened to be lucky to learn from two extraordinary people, Queen Sansa."

Sansa narrowed her eyes, "If you are to ask me to stop calling you 'Ser', then by gods, stop calling me 'Queen'."

"It's much more improper not to than for you to skip my title," Podrick argued, shaking his head.

Sansa almost laughed. She wasn't sure Podrick had ever fought before, verbally, but there was something nice about it. She knew they weren't truly arguing, but to hear him so passionate about something was closer to normal than most other conversations she'd had. Ruling a land truly was dull at times, and those that did argue with her she often found annoying. Even Jeyne was careful with her.

"I'm hardly your queen though," Sansa pointed out, "And you've said 'my Queen' once or twice."

"You…" Podrick paused, looking up, "You may not be the Stark I serve, but that does not make you any less a queen. As I think Bran will likely have a male follow him, you are also the only Queen I'd ever serve in the little ways I can, the ways without committing treason." He spoke each word carefully, which was fair. Sansa sat back, unsure how to parry back a reply.

"Perhaps we will come to a compromise then?" Sansa finally said, "In private, we'll do away with titles- no matter who is more deserving of their newly-minted prefix-,"

"Unquestionably, you," Podrick murmured.

"And continue to refer to each other as 'Ser' and 'Queen' around others. However, you will have to stop saying 'my Queen'," Sansa said. She wished he could get away with it. Every time that he did, a part of Sansa's heart lit up, as she imagined a world where he'd ridden back to serve her, not Bran, "You may lose your head, and we can't have that."

"No, I suppose not," Podrick sighed, "I agree, my Q-Sansa." He winced. Sansa was surprised he agreed, but glad. Part of Podricks' character was his rigid properness and loyalty.

"I had a question, of you, a favor," Sansa said after a moment, recalling why she'd sought him out.

"Anything," He said immediately, the word spilling out all jumbled together.

"I haven't yet picked my personal guard. I have Winterfell guards, yes, but picking out one's personal set is a little more delicate. Anyone I trusted to guard me with a sword is either dead or sworn to another," She could have sworn Pod winced, even just briefly, "So I am at a loss as how to pick the best men."

She paused, looking at Podrick imploringly. Podrick scratched his chin.

"I'm not sure what you're asking."

"I want you to aid me in picking them, or better yet, tell me who you think is worthy." She held up a hand before he could protest, "You have watched Brienne pick for Bran, and I know that you'd have my best interests at heart. You may think yourself a knight only by luck, but that's not it. You're a fantastic knight; you should have been knighted ages ago. You know what it takes to be a good guard, so please, help me," she breathed.

Podrick let out a quiet groan. She almost missed his words, whispered under his breath, as though he didn't expect her to hear it. "It is alarmingly impossible to deny any of your requests, Sansa."

Sansa wasn't sure how to proceed with that, so she just stood. She did not acknowledge or pretend she hadn't heard it, instead just decided to leave and let him be.

"I will have Jeyne deliver the list of men who have expressed interest to your door tonight, and the notes I had on them. I hope you'll find time before you leave to help me."

But, even as she said it, Sansa knew he'd help.

She was sure she'd rest much safer knowing that her sworn guardsmen would be vetted by Podrick.

_XIX_

_Dear Arya,_

_That was completely inappropriate of you to send me moon tea! You should be glad only me and Jeyne open these letters...can you imagine the scandal that would have occurred? And, I'll have you know, that if I ever find myself in the need of it, we still do grow it here. _

_I suppose I should be pleased; you sending me such indicates that you are taking precautions with Lord Gendry. Gods know I couldn't talk you out of abstaining any more than I could broach the topic of him making you a proper 'Lady'. If you feel such the overwhelming desire to sleep with him (and please, don't answer that), at least you are being safe. Although, on the other side of the argument, I think we both know where you'll end up. Having an heir early wouldn't be entirely unreasonable. _

_On a different but slightly similar note...your continued efforts to have me sleep with a man is actually starting to get alarming aggressive and to be frank, a little concerning. I'm not even sure what people would think if they saw the letters we send back and forth to each other. _

_Is this what sisters talk about? I guess I wouldn't even know…_

_Love,_

_Sansa_

_Dear Sansa,_

_Well, thank the gods that the moon tea plants survived! You know, I'd take it as a holy sign that they want you to have good, hot sex. You know, considering that most of the rest of the plants were destroyed in the battle._

_I'm not even going to talk about you saying I should have a kid. I think I want one, but...damn, there I go, talking about it. Let's just put a pause on that for now, huh? _

_And come on, isn't there anyone you'd sleep with? You may not believe it, but the whole of Winterfell would probably be very willing to sleep with you! It's better if you like it too…_

_Arya,_

_Well, there is-_

_You remember-_

_I think that I-_

_No. There's no one I want to sleep with right now. _

_Love,_

_Sansa_

_XX_

Sansa didn't know what prompted her to keep her budding relationship with Podrick a secret from Arya. Certainly, it wasn't because she didn't trust her. She trusted Arya above most people.

Maybe because she wasn't sure if there was a relationship to speak of. Not a romantic one, gods no, Sansa considered. A friendship, she foolishly steeled herself to think. She enjoyed Ser Podrick was a person and confidant, this much was true. She was looking forward to talking to him every day. She was already mourning him leaving, but reminded herself they'd still have letters.

Even with all of this, Sansa was unsure what it meant . She knew exactly what Arya would say about it, so that may be why Sansa said nothing. Until she knew more, this was her secret to hold close to her chest.

"Any men look good, Ser?" Sansa said, coming to sit beside Podrick, her fingers tracing lightly across his back. She saw how he stiffened, but after a moment- when her touch receded-his shoulders relaxed.

"My Queen," Podrick teased back, looking around the empty room.

"Podrick, I mean, Podrick." Sansa corrected herself, recalling their agreement.

Podrick flipped through the scrolls, "Yes, to answer. A couple. I'd like to meet with them in person."

"Of course. Would tomorrow after we break our fast be acceptable?"

"More than," Podrick began to assemble the scrolls into three piles. Sansa guess it may be 'yes, no, and maybe', but she was unsure, "I don't think any of these men are necessarily bad choices. I just think some are better than others." He said, as Sansa watched him.

"But you've ruled out some," Sansa prompted.

"Yes," Podrick took a good long time to speak, "I get the feeling, though I may be wrong, that some men coming looking to serve you in...other ways. And they feel this is just a stepping stone."

"For marriage," Sansa surmised. She saw a light blush on Podrick's cheeks, but he nodded.

Sansa hummed unhappily. She hated to be reminded that to many men, she was just a piece in a game to move around, a key to the North. She was the epitome of the North to some, but not all. It was so frustrating to be ruling as she was, but then have these boys ride in on horses with the expectation that Sansa would hand it all over to them.

"If I've upset you-,"

"No," Sansa turned her head sharply, "You? Never. I just...marriage is a subject I don't like talking about."

"Because of...right," Podrick smartly trailed off before he listed her previous two marriages, and one near-marriage, "I'd imagine you wouldn't be keen on jumping into one so swiftly."

"No." Sansa's voice had hardened to edge to it, "Yet, I field at least three offers a day. Not just from my own men, but the new Prince of Dorn sent me you one, did you know?"

Podrick's whole face was red, "I did not."

"I turned them all down." Sansa didn't think it needed to be said, but she did anyway.

"Do you think you'll ever marry again?" Podrick leaned onto the desk, his arms crossed inches away from Sansa's.

"I would like to hope so, and I would like to hope it would be out of love," She said, words she couldn't even bring herself to tell Jeyne, "I don't know if I could bring myself to marry for duty ever again. Even if…"

Even if it meant losing the North.

That was her worst secret, the one that clawed her up inside. For everything she'd done, for all the blood she'd helped to spill, for every awful act she'd been a part of...all for the North. She would give the North near anything, except a loveless marriage. Not again. Never again.

"Did you ever imagine yourself to marry?" The words were leaving her lips before she was aware.

"I suppose. It's just expected." Podrick said, blinking, but seemed a little caught off-guard.

"I'm sorry. That's rude of me to ask now. All things considered…" She found herself glancing at his Kingsguard uniform, visible under the furs to combat the coolness of the winter.

"No, we all knew what we were signing up for," Podrick insisted, "It's a great honor. Besides, though we still can't marry, King Bran has said that we are free to...take lovers," He mumbled the last part, so softly that Sansa almost didn't hear.

"Oh?"

Podrick looked uncomfortable discussing it but realized he'd said it already, and Sansa leaned in, curious, "Well, most of the guard was with someone in secret anyway. But King Bran sees everything. As long as it doesn't interfere with our sworn duties, your brother didn't want to deny us what most already did."

"Would you have?"

The question is undeniably teasing, almost flirty. Sansa is appalled that she even asked. Podrick is the most honorable man she knows, she highly doubts it.

He looks down, laughing a bit, though she's not sure what's funny. It was entirely inappropriate for her to even say.

"No, I wouldn't have. You know that's not me."

"I do. I truly do! I-," Sansa broke off, so embarrassed, "You're a good knight, Podrick. I don't know why I'd even wondered."

"No harm done," Podrick said, meeting Sansa's eyes, "Truly."

He was smiling at the corners of his lips, a soft look that made Sansa relax.

She firmly kept the next question in the back of her throat though, unsaid. The question that she simultaneously wanted to know and did not want to know. The idea of knowing, either way, made her queasy, but not in a gross sort of way, but a way Sansa could not place.

_Now that Bran's lifted the rule, will you partake in sexual pleasure?_


End file.
